


Jet Pack Blues

by alexenglish



Category: One Direction (Band), The Voice (Ireland) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, Impact Play, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Rough Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11321088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: That saying:you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone?Niall relates.





	Jet Pack Blues

**Author's Note:**

> it's finally here! oh god. I'm so excited and nervous about this one. I've been wanting to write it for months and almost didn't write it for the fest because I knew it was going to be long, but at the check-in, I was literally like _fuck it_ and decided to go for it. I'm so glad I did, I hope y'all like it. 
> 
> please heed the tags, they're real and true. there's a note about the infidelity, under-negotiated kink, and ambiguous/open ending tags in the notes at the bottom, if you're nervous about any of those things. 
> 
> endless love to Kat for letting me inflict this on her and putting up with my em dashes, best beta in the universe. forever thankful for Tanisha, who's basically my Nessie sounding board and cried about this with me months and months ago xoxo

❝I know every river has an end.                  
                You loved me & then you left.    
                You loved me & then you didn’t.    
   
                                         I water myself nightly,    
but by dawn I’m parched again.        
                                             I know a lot about leaving    
               but it never gets easier.

                           — [Natalie Wee, Practice Makes Perfect](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fnatalieweepoetry.com%2F&t=MzNlZDVmYTZiOGU4MTRjMTVhZDFlMDNkZThiMzgwOGEwZGUzNTQ5MCx3Q0h3SVRYRA%3D%3D&b=t%3Akkqb6e8W73LD9vXZXnoxrQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fqueerlyalex.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162331964357%2Fi-know-every-river-has-an-end&m=1)

 

 

**August, 2018, London**

Another Friday in London means another Friday being pestered by Eoghan to go out with the crew.

Niall’s still in the studio, exhausted from an 11 hour day, eyes crossed from running over lyrics and deciphering his own notes about musical composition. The voice note on his phone of the current melody he’s working with has been replayed at least two dozen times; if Niall ever has to hear himself hum again, it’ll be too soon.

The studio’s nice and dry and airy, but Niall feels grimy nonetheless. As if the mental strain is causing him to sweat. It’s not. There’s no sweat, or dirt, but he feels like he needs one of them nice, long, scorching hot showers to make him feel human again.

Maybe it’s a byproduct of emotional strain. The hummed melody in his voice notes is one of the more personal stories he’s decided to tell. It’s the type of honesty that’s difficult to get right. Doesn’t want to give too much away, but wants it to connect. Wants it to reverberate with hollow desire without putting himself on intimate display.

It’s a bit raw. He’s still deciding whether or not to put it on the album.

Anyway. Eoghan. He hasn’t answered Eoghan’s pleas for Niall’s company yet, he’s got the text open in front of him as he chews his bottom lip.

He _is_ planning on going, is the thing. It’s been weeks of studio work, holed up with the band and their instruments working on the album. He’s skipped tons of pub nights, which makes him miss everyone something fierce, and he was going to make it up, but…

He’s on Instagram after posting a video of the lads packing up the instruments, and he pulls up Bressie’s story. There’s a few videos of everyone at the pub, shouting and drinking and laughing. Anytime Niall’s not with them, there’s always more evidence of their nights out. Mostly for the sake of lying low. Niall understands that, it’s an unspoken rule, but it still digs when the next video plays and right over top it says: _gang’s all here!_

Niall’s very much _not_ there, so that’s decidedly untrue, and it's enough to make Niall _not_ want to go. He could use the studio as an excuse -- lord knows it’s worked well enough up to this point. Weeks of saying he’s too busy, what’s another night?

He could go home and crash out on his bed feeling sorry for himself. In the morning, relive what he missed through all the snaps Eoghan would send him for ditching them. Bressie probably wouldn’t bother saying anything, he’s remained unbothered by Niall’s absence.

Whatever. It’s fine. He hasn’t been around much. Bressie’s probably not thinking about it that much either way. Niall there, not there; most of the crew is present, so it doesn’t matter.

Bressie probably doesn’t think that hard about anything involving Niall these days, that hollow feeling in his chest reminds him. Why would he? Doesn’t matter that Niall thinks about Bressie all the time.

“Fuck off,” Niall tells himself.

He never did think he’d be one to avoid Bressie, of all people. Always said if Bressie ever moved back to London, Niall would see him every week -- three times a week. Bressie wouldn’t be able to shake him, it’d be a right craic.

That was before Bressie actually moved back.

Fuck.

“Lads!” Niall hollers, making up his mind. He’s tired of feeling sorry for himself. The band looks up from messing with their gear, lips already curving in smiles like they know what he’s going to say before he says it. Niall grins. “Drinks!”

 

 

**June, 2016, London**

It started a bit after Bressie and Roz split.

There was something about the attention Bressie gave him that always did it for Niall. Fellow Mullingar man, properly famous, giving little Nialler the time of day when he was all crooked teeth and knobby knees.

That first year they got to know each other, it thrilled him anytime Bressie so much as looked at him. And Bressie was always looking, always checking up on him. Bressie was always easy smiles, always big on reassuring touches -- warm hand on Niall’s shoulder, sides pressed close together.

In turn, Niall was always overly affectionate with Bressie, always flirty. All it took was a cheeky eyebrow raise in Niall’s direction, and Niall’s stomach went squirmy, hot. Even young like that, still figuring things out like he was, he knew he was massively into Bressie.

Bressie was everything he wanted. Nice eyes, great smile, funny as hell, loved music as much as he did, had a higher golf handicap than Niall did. They had everything in common -- same love for silly socks and hot air balloons and Fleetwood Mac. Grew up running the same hills and looking at the same sunset in their shared hometown.

Bressie was a bit of home wrapped up in something new and exciting and devastatingly handsome, and it always felt like Niall was waiting for the right moment.

The buried attraction flared back to life once Bressie was single, and since Niall was older, well. Looking back, Niall doesn’t remember how he knew Bressie would go for it, just remembered he wanted Bressie so badly his teeth ached.

And Niall had this habit of getting what he wanted.

So, he let his smiles go sweet and private for Bressie; lowered his lashes, teeth biting into his bottom lip, playing coy in a way he never had before. Let Bressie catch his lingering gazes, cheeks flaring self-consciously even as he mentally dared Bressie to do something about it. He remembers Bressie noticing the attention. Remembers the bemused grins and surprised laughter when Niall started laying on the charm.

It started in the middle of the day, Bressie cooking up a stir-fry in Niall’s kitchen, both of them stupid hungover from a pub crawl the night before. Bressie was gorgeous even when he was green around the edges.

Niall sat on the counter and watched Bressie cook -- watched the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt and the way his arms flexed when he did anything at all; watched the look of concentration on his face as he chopped up all the veggies, momentarily broken by the smiles he allowed Niall when Niall made him laugh.

In that moment, he couldn’t think of anything other than how badly he needed to kiss Bressie.

“C’mere,” Niall said, once Bressie turned the heat on low and covered the food to let it simmer. Bressie made a curious noise, but he moved towards Niall obediently, hovering out of reach. Niall rolled his eyes. “Closer.”

Bressie took a step forward. Niall sighed and grabbed Bressie’s arm, pulling him in so he was between Niall’s legs. So close Niall could hear the way Bressie’s breath caught when Niall wrapped his legs around Bressie’s waist, loose but purposeful.

Niall wasn’t sure what he was doing, heart pounding so hard he thought he was going to pass out. There was white noise in his ears and unbearable heat in his cheeks, but he tilted his chin stubbornly and looked at Bressie, noting the sharp curiosity glittering in his eyes.

“Yeah?” Bressie asked, quiet and low enough betray his hesitation.

“Think so,” Niall says, with a predatory grin, meeting Bressie halfway when he leaned down to kiss Niall, hard and hungry, force of it making Niall rock backwards. He tightened his legs on Bressie’s hips, and Bressie’s hands dropped to his thighs, gripping and pulling him in so his arse was half off the counter.

Bressie kissed him like they’d been doing it for years, confident -- keeping Niall close, licking into his mouth and biting down on his bottom lip, somehow knowing exactly what Niall liked without Niall having to tell him. Or maybe, Niall liked it so much because it was Bressie. Either way.

Everything was hard and harsh and bruising. Bressie’s mouth at his throat, beard scraping the sensitive skin there, making Niall whine and whimper. Bressie palming him through his trousers, one hand under Niall to tilt his hips into a better angle as the other worked his flies open.

Niall’s elbows went watery from holding himself up, groans echoing all around the kitchen as Bressie wanked him off. The whole world was reduced down to a blur; Bressie’s filthy kisses, the static of his own pulse in his ears, the way his stomach quivered with every quick slip of Bressie’s big hand.

When he came, he nearly dropped backwards, but Bressie was there to keep him steady, holding him tightly. There was spunk on Niall’s shirt, and Bressie was grinning like he won the lotto.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Niall said, chest heaving, and Bressie laughed and laughed and laughed.

It didn’t stop, not for a long time.

He didn’t make it a habit on purpose, but was it really a habit when they only saw each other in bits and snatches, half a dozen times in a year? The anticipation is what really did it for Niall. In between they’d carry on as always -- best of friends, keeping up with each other -- but once they were together…

There was that thrill Niall got when Bressie’s attention was on him. Something addicting in knowing that at the end of the night, he’d have Bressie in his bed. Made him feel wild and giddy -- getting to kiss Bressie and touch him all over, laughing into the soft skin of Bressie’s hip, tasting the pulse trembling under the soft skin of his neck.

Niall was happy, steady even when they bickered, anchored in a way he hadn’t known before.

Idiotically, Niall thought it wouldn’t matter. Thought he could keep all his feelings neatly separated, like there’d be no difference before and after they started shagging. Thought he could fuck Bressie for months and months, and act surprised when feelings finally got involved.

Like they could go back to being friends after all that.

It started as a joke, or he thinks it did anyway. Some offhanded comment by Eoghan when Bressie fetched something for Niall, “imagine what it’d be like if you were dating properly”, or some shite, and both of them laughing it off.

Must’ve got Bressie thinking though. Didn’t take long for him to ask Niall what he thought about that, and Niall had a lot of feelings about it; mostly terrified of fucking everything up between them -- still lying, telling himself things were the same as they were before.

Niall always said no. Said no in all the ways there were to say no. No, he wasn’t ready. No, he was busy. No, he didn’t want their relationship reduced to pig shite if it didn’t work out. No, wasn’t it fine like this? Wasn’t this enough? Why couldn’t it be enough?

Niall could see it sometimes, after they shagged -- there were always moments where Bressie’s smiles were more forced, his laugh more raw. Niall could see the resignation on his face before he masked it. Lying in the messed up sheets, Bressie propped up on his elbow to watch Niall, big hand settled across Niall’s stomach, fingers spanning hip to hip, sad look in his eyes.

Niall felt naked in more ways than one -- physically, spread out underneath Bressie like that, and vulnerable as hell -- shrinking with shame and indecision. Hot from their proximity, and the way he flushed with embarrassment knowing he’d disappointed Bressie like he did.

But he didn’t do anything about it. Didn’t keep himself from leaning up to kiss Bressie, like it did anything to soothe the fierce ache in his chest. Like it could possibly make it any better, knowing that the next morning Bressie would make jokes about Niall being his boyfriend, and Niall would ignore them in favor of fucking Bressie on the dining room table.

Didn't keep them from falling into bed the next time, and the next time, and --

He thought it wouldn’t matter, but here he is, contemplating hiding out from his friends because he doesn’t want to be held accountable for his disappearing act. Bressie’s been living in London for nearly two months, and this will be the first time Niall’s seen him since the end of February.

Not that he’s been avoiding Bressie for half a year _entirely_ on purpose. He’s been busy. The move happened right as Niall was hopping the pond to do radio promo with Shawn for their collab. LA, New York, a few performances and a decent amount of nights drunk with the lads. He’s been back for a few weeks, but they have studio time booked up for days and days to focus on writing his second album.

It’s been a good excuse up until this point. Studio time, busy busy busy, exhausted at the end of the day. It makes blowing everyone off easier, makes his avoidance more _purposeful._ Not only avoiding Bressie, but Eoghan and Laura and all them as well -- he’s transparent to every single one of them, and he needs space from it and everyone involved.

It’s easier with the band, they know him differently than the others do. They weren’t there for the inception of it; the early drunk, happy days where it was shagging and nothing more. Before serious talks about dating, Bressie’s puppy eyes, and all Niall’s excuses. They weren’t there to see it take that turn, so they’re not inclined to poke and prod about Bressie at every opportunity like the others are.

They were only around for the middle of it, the more domestic bits in between when it wasn’t a question whose hotel room Bressie was staying in, and no one bothered heckling Niall about where the dark bruises on his chest came from.

They were there for the end of it, too. For the radio silence after their last weekend together, and Bressie popping up two months later on a Friday, gently pushing Niall away that Saturday when they -- everyone, every single person there -- were all out back at Eoghan’s, saying, “I’m seeing someone.”

They were there for Niall’s loud, awkward laugh to cover up the fact that his heart shattered in the breadth of three words, and the night going on after like nothing had happened.

He thought it wouldn’t matter, but Bressie’s got a boyfriend and Niall’s been regretting he asked Bressie to come closer ever since.

 

 

 **August, 2018, London**  

Performance anxiety is a curious thing. It always gets him real good beforehand -- makes his stomach flutter, his brain buzz, and his palms damp. He gets wound up, giddy. Not normal giddy, astronomically giddy.

If anything’s to blame, it’s the way he and the boys used to get before shows. Years spent running their pre-show jitters out in the most obnoxious ways possible. Taking laps around arenas, skateboarding, dodging security to steal maintenance carts, football, impromptu wrestling matches -- anything, everything.

This is remarkably similar to that. Anxiety coiled tightly around his spine as the driver takes them to the pub everyone’s at. He can feel the nervous energy trying to burst out of him, make him hyper and obnoxious. He wrestles it down, leg bouncing wildly, picking at his cuticles for something to do.

He leaps out of the car as soon as they pull up, impatiently waiting for everyone else to get out. Gerry puts a hand on his shoulder, like it’ll steady him. Niall appreciates it, takes a moment to breathe before they push through the doors.

The first thing Niall sees is Bressie. He expected that. If Niall were a moth, Bressie would be a flame; he always knows where Bressie’s at, like a compass always knows true north. He expected the way it gently knocks the wind out of him and makes his chest sore, reminding him how long it’s been since they were in the same room --

Saying goodbye that weekend in February, an awkward hug that Niall hates to think about. He didn’t know where to put his hands, he didn’t know what to say anymore. Bressie was just as weird, and then he was gone --

Excitement jolts through him like lightning down a metal rod right after the brief moment of self-pity, like his body’s reminding him to get his shit together.

The best part about performance anxiety is that it precedes the performance. And this is Niall’s performance for the night. Every smile must be real and convincing, every laugh genuine. Luckily, he’s good at this, this is what he does. Eight-odd years and the best thing he’s learned from fame is how to constantly be agreeable.

So he lets it settle, lets all his angst go in a breath, inhabits the person he was before it all -- when he was Bressie’s best friend and nothin’ more. He can do this.

Bressie’s back is mostly towards him, surrounded by a handful of Niall’s favorite people. He ditches the others in favor of crossing to where Bressie is as quickly as possible. There’s a foot of clearance when Niall breaks through the crowd, so he takes a running jump and hoists himself onto Bressie’s back, knees pressing into Bressie’s sides as his arms circle Bressie’s shoulders.

Bressie stumbles, but he’s quick as ever, big hands coming up to grab Niall’s thighs, neck turning quick to see who’s there, whole face comically surprised. Niall grins at him like they haven’t spent six months apart, barely speaking to each other.

“Hey,” he says, with a laugh as Bressie’s eyebrows fly up. Everyone around them is laughing as they realize what happened, and Niall’s pleased down to his bones. He squeezes tight, a full body hug that Bressie returns by tightening his grip on Niall’s legs -- gentle pressure as good of a hello as anything.

Niall giggles obnoxiously, warm all over, and exaggerates the kiss he presses to the back of Bressie’s neck. A loud _MWAH!_ that he’s sure most everyone can hear. There’s a flare of heat in his cheeks, but he ignores it. It’s affection, that’s all it is. Best friendly affection, from one best friend to another.

Doesn’t matter that they’re not best friends anymore. Tonight’s about the performance.

He taps a quick beat against Bressie’s shoulder and Bressie reads it easy as anything, loosening his hold so Niall can drop down. Niall squeezes his arm in thanks as he passes to get at the rest of the crew.

Laura’s giggling at him, eyes bright and knowing as he hooks an arm around her and pulls her in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. It’s powdery with makeup, warm.

“Shut the hell up, Whitmore,” he says in her ear, low enough so only she can hear him. She laughs again, whole body moving with it before shoving him off her.

He hugs Dave next, doesn’t get mocked, which he appreciates. Natalia comes up behind him and wraps her arms around them both, sandwiching Niall completely. David smells like beer and clean sweat when Niall breathes him, closer than he’s been in weeks.

And yeah, he can admit avoiding them is a terrible idea. He will not do it again.

Niall lets them rock him back and forth for a full minute before he wiggles away, managing to stumble into Bressie. Bressie’s hands curl around his upper arm, steadying him, and Niall laughs, tipping his head back to look up at Bressie. Bressie smiles down at him, and Niall hates the way his heart jumps at the fondness there.

Now that they’re next to each other, it feels like they were never apart.

But they were, and Bressie’s already stepping back with a shy smile. “Got someone for you to meet,” he says.

Right to it, then.

Niall keeps the smile on his face, pretending there isn’t a stone sinking heavily in his gut, effectively smothering the giddiness he feels.

“This is Jaime,” Bressie says, gesturing to the man sat on the booth next to Bressie. Niall didn’t even notice he was there, too busy throwing himself at people, but he’s there alright.

Jaime Taylor -- two first names, tall, English, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Head cook at a fancy arse restuarant in the heart of London. Likes football and beer, doesn’t have too many political opinions, but he definitely didn’t vote Brexit.

Niall may have snooped his Twitter once or twice.

“Hi Jaime,” Niall says, stepping closer so Jaime can hear him, holds out his hand automatically like he’s greeting an interviewer. “I’m Niall Horan.” The grin is still plastered on his face; it must be convincing enough if Bressie isn’t kicking him for being a twat.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Jaime says. His voice is deeper than Niall was expecting. One of those ones that rumbles low in the chest. When he shakes Niall’s hand, it’s firm but not tight. When he smiles, it’s completely genuine. He has dimples. “Niall talks about you a lot.”

“What -- oh.” Niall laughs out loud to hide his bewilderment. The only people who call Bressie by his Christian name are his mum and dad, and people who don’t know him a lick outside of professional settings. It sounds odd coming from the boyfriend. Christ. “Don’t believe anything he says. Bressie fibs.”

“Well, I guess all those good things he said weren’t true,” Jaime teases, looking up at Bressie fondly. Niall doesn’t follow his gaze, doesn’t want to see the way Bressie looks back at Jaime quite yet. Doesn’t think he can handle that, heart already cracked open like an egg.

“Definitely not,” Niall says, winking slyly when he has Jaime’s attention again. Jaime laughs politely.

“Do y’ need a drink, chief?” Bressie asks. “We’ve got a pitcher.”

“I think I’ll grab something at the bar,” Niall says, thrilled for an excuse to leg it out of there. “The other lads are probably loading up with shots. Need anything?”

“Shots would be good, thanks,” Bressie says, smiling as he reaches down to play with the hair curling behind Jaime’s ear. The hollow feeling in Niall’s chest makes itself known again, a dull ache that expands with every passing moment.

“I’ll be back,” Niall says, not bothering to ask what kind of booze they want. He’ll get Bressie’s favorite. If Jaime doesn’t like it, that’s not Niall’s problem.

“Catch you in a bit,” Jaime says, but Niall’s already going.

His heart pounds in his chest as he heads towards the bar, picking out the others in the low light. He wishes it wasn’t pounding. He wishes he wasn’t affected at all, but here he is. There’s no use dwelling on it. He’ll just get drunk and ignore it. That’s always a solid plan.

It’s a Friday night, so the crowd is decent, but it’s early enough in the night that the chatter isn’t loud, music still heard over the conversations. The lads are all crammed in front of the bar waiting for drinks, Bird and Louis Q. behind Gerry and Jake.

“Did’ya get me anything?” Niall asks, using Bird as an armrest. He hopes he doesn’t look as out of sorts as he feels. Bird takes his weight agreeably, grins.

“Sure did,” he says. “You were busy.”

“Was,” Niall agrees, light as anything. “Get more shots.”

“Did you say hello to the boyfriend, then?” Gerry asks, passing three Guinnesses back before grabbing two more. Niall holds two, taking a long pull out of one before he answers.

“Yup,” Niall says, tongue darting out to catch the foam around the rim. They’re all looking at him expectantly. Niall pretends not to know why. “ _What_?”

“What’d you think?” Louis asks, elbowing Niall to get moving.

Niall leads them back to the others, eyes catching on Bressie -- again, like always, true north. He’s talking to Eoghan, eyes bright with alcohol, leaning against the side of the booth Jaime’s sat in. Jaime’s got a smile on his face as he listens to them, fingers hooked onto Bressie’s belt loop.

“He’s English,” Niall says, looking away.

“He’s _English_ ,” Bird says, laugh bursting out of him. The others laugh as well, a swell of it over the conversation and music.

Niall grins. “That’s all that needs to be said.”

“Hey!” Louis says, mock offended.

“You’re honorary Irish,” Bird says soothingly.

“No one is honorary Irish,” Gerry argues.

“Authentic Irish only,” Niall says as they rejoin the others. Bressie looks over at them. Niall pretends not to notice. He nudges Bird and winks, putting on a Southern accent. “100 percent, gen-u-ine Irish.”

“I thought there was some London in this ‘London Irish Crew’,” Louis teases.

“By location only,” Niall says, wrinkling his nose. He doesn’t really want to carry out this bickering in front of Bressie. If Bressie pushes for honorary members of the LIC ‘cause Jaime, Niall might hurl. It’s petty, but Niall doesn’t want to hear anything of the sort.

The server comes up behind them with a whole tray of shots, glasses clinking gently as she sets it down, amber liquid sloshing inside. She looks at Niall when he reaches for one, bright blue eyes going wide when she recognizes him.

She smiles shyly when Niall winks at her, cheeks going pink. She doesn’t stick around, but looks back at him as she walks away, smirking when she notices he’s still watching. She’s gorgeous, ‘course he is.

He just wishes he could care about anyone other than Bressie at the moment.

“Alright, stop that,” Jake admonishes, giving Niall a pointed look. “This is a mate date, we’re not here for y’ to pull.”

“‘Mate date’,” Laura snorts, plastering herself to Niall. She’s small and warm as she tucks herself into his side, grabbing a shot. “There’s a feckin’ dozen of us, Jakey. What kind of date.”

Bressie comes in close to grab a shot. There’s a breath of space between them. Niall feels every centimeter acutely. He wants to shuffle over until they’re close enough that their arms brush. When he looks up at Bressie, Bressie’s already smiling at him.

“A very interesting one,” Niall says, forcing his attention back on Laura. He digs his fingers into her side so she’ll squirm and giggle. Whiskey splashes over her wrist; he catches her hand with his free one and licks at it sloppily. “Whoops.”

“You’re not even _drunk_ ,” she says. “You can’t go around licking people.”

“Can too,” Niall says, resisting the urge to lick her face to make a point. He definitely needs to have some alcohol in him for that.

“Alright, shut up Horan,” Eoghan says. “Flirt on your own time, we’re taking shots.”

Niall laughs out loud, and raises his glass in a toast. The rest of them follow suit, reaching over each other to hit as many glasses as possible. His hands get sticky from spilt whiskey, nearly laughing too hard to take it, but he manages.

The whiskey burns going down, and Niall mentally apologizes to his esophagus for the hell he puts his reflux through on pub nights. His doctor lectures him about beer at every given opportunity, but Niall’s too Irish to listen.

The shot makes him warm enough to grin through Eoghan’s gentle ribbing about being too busy to come out with them all. He drains a beer, and then another, listening to Eoghan talk about third wheeling Bressie and Jaime more than once in the past month.

“ _That_ is a personal choice,” Niall tells him, and Eoghan punches him in the arm, look on his face far too knowing.

Niall mingles plenty, but he and Bressie are circling each other. Not exactly on purpose, Niall doesn’t think, but it’s happening nonetheless. Bressie coming up to the bar as Niall’s leaving it. Niall joining the tail end of conversations before Bressie moves away.

He can’t say he’s upset about it, not right now. Jaime sticks close to Bressie. The more Niall drinks, the less he wants to end up cornered between the two of them. Lord knows his mouth runs when he’s got liquor in him, he doesn’t need it running off something stupid.

He doesn’t think he could deal having to see them… interact. Doesn’t want to see how they smile at each other. Doesn’t want to see private looks between them. Doesn’t want to know how hard Jaime can make Bressie laugh.

He doesn’t want to see how they touch each other. They’ve been together long enough, they’re probably all casually intimate. Can’t do much in a public space, but always making sure to check in -- hands on waists and arms, light touches meant to be reassuring.

He remembers when that was his language with Bressie -- the easy affection, and outrageous flirting, and sneaky gropes in dark corners, and cheeky snogs in the bathroom. Remembers how Bressie would slide his hand under Niall’s shirt to pet over his hip, fingertips digging in like he needed to anchor himself lest they slip lower. It always thrilled Niall, the way Bressie so obviously wanted him, like he couldn’t help himself.

Niall wonders what it would be like now. How Bressie might act if Jaime wasn’t around. Would he drift closer, try harder to hold a conversation? Would he let Niall press against his side for most of the night, or would he keep his distance?

Niall looks at the bottom of his glass accusingly. It’s not the beer that’s making him a sad shite, though, is it?

Speaking of.

“Alright?” Bressie asks, sliding into the seat across the table from him.

Niall’s been leaning against one of the high tops for a bit, listening to Gerry and David go on about football and whatever else, spacing out, as he does when he’s contemplative and boozy.

Bressie slides a shot towards him like a peace offering. The glass looks tiny compared to Bressie's hand -- thick fingers, wide palm… There’s a blue and green handmade bracelet around his wrist. Niall knows it’s handmade because he bought it off a vendor in Thailand -- made him think of Bressie’s eyes.

Niall frowns and hooks two fingers into it, tugging. Heart pounding, he has no idea why Bressie would be wearing it. When he meets Bressie’s eyes, there’s an indecipherable look on Bressie’s face, and Niall thinks he should be demanding an answer, but he doesn’t know what question to ask.

They keep watching each other for a moment. Niall’s pulse is high up his throat, and he can't swallow it down; every emotion in his body threatening to spill out of him, and he wonders if Bressie feels it the same as he does -- if he missed this push-pull magnetism between them, still there after so long.

Niall’s heart is a bruise. He aches all over.

“Alright,” Niall agrees belatedly, dropping the bracelet so he can grab his shot. He grins at Bressie a bit sideways as Bressie pulls his hand back. Niall decides he’s never going to bring it up if he can help it.

“You got quiet, sittin’ over here by yourself.”

“Tired,” he says. It’s not a complete lie. It’s been a long damn day. Bressie knows there’s more to it, Niall can see it on his face, but he’s not going to push, mainly because there’s tall, blonde Englishman headed their way with an amiable smile on his face.

Niall wishes he were more drunk. Properly drunk. As it is, he’s pleasantly buzzed, but not buzzed enough to find the situation pleasant. This is exactly what he was trying to avoid, trapped between the two of them with nowhere to go.

He and Bressie don’t say anything until Jaime is at their table giving them both a megawatt smile. His eyes go shockingly soft when he looks at Bressie. Niall takes his shot so he doesn’t have to see what Bressie’s face is doing in return, whiskey making his gut churn.

“Niall, babe, I’m grabbing another drink,” Jaime says. “Need anything?”

_Niall._

_Babe._

Niall keeps the friendly the expression on his face. It’s something Tommo calls his ‘dead eyed interview look’ -- they all had it one way or another -- the fake, agreeable mask they wore when an interviewer was asking terrible questions, or being subtly offensive.

Performance art.

Bressie makes a thoughtful humming noise. “Another beer. What about you, chief?”

Niall wonders if Bressie realizes he hasn’t said Niall’s name the whole night.

“Sure Bressie, same,” Niall replies, smiling. Bressie beams back, and Niall wishes he wasn’t so easily fooled; like it might be proof of some lingering intimacy if Bressie would cotton on to the fact that Niall wasn’t okay with any of this.

He doesn’t. Catch on, that is. He asks Jaime for two beers, face tilting up towards Jaime, and Niall looks this time, makes himself look at Bressie’s soft smile and Jaime’s hand on Bressie’s side, easy as anything.

He can’t stop the jealousy from slicking up his insides, thick and choking.

“Be back,” Jaime says, tapping once on the table before leaning over and --

Niall watches as they kiss, right there where anyone might see them. Sweet and a little dirty, pink of Bressie’s tongue darting out before Jaime pulls away with an amused huff.

There’s a heavy, numb feeling in the middle of Niall’s chest, and he looks down at the table, looks at his hands, takes a drink.

Jaime leaves, content smile lingering on Bressie’s face once he’s gone. Niall puts his glass down and lifts an eyebrow curiously. Bressie shrugs.

“Nobody’s lookin’,” he says, like it’s that simple.

And maybe it is. Maybe it is, because it’s London, and Bressie isn’t as familiar of a face here. Maybe it is because Jaime isn’t Niall, he doesn’t draw eyes and phone cameras wherever he goes. It’s simpler simply since he isn’t _Niall_ , full stop.

Christ, Niall’s head hurts.

“Like that, huh, _Niall_?” he asks, making sure his tone is light. The urge to be _mean_ is so overwhelming, he’s suffocating with it, but he shoves it away the best he can. He refuses to cause a scene, refuses to let Bressie see how affected he is.

“Shut it, you,” Bressie says, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he grins. “We met at the talk I gave in Paris.” End of January this year. When Bressie went quiet. Right. “Got introduced as Niall, so y’know.”

“So your boyfriend,” said pleasantly, tastes like ash, “calls ye ‘Niall’, same as your mum.”

“It’s me name, little,” Bressie says, with a fond eyeroll. It’s grand that he thinks Niall’s messing about. Niall’s more irritated about this than he has any right to be, and he knows so.

“It is, innit?” Niall smiles winningly, drains his glass, and ignores the way Bressie’s turned to look at the bar -- at Jaime ordering. At his _boyfriend_.

“What do you think?” Bressie asks, turning back to Niall. Niall blinks at him, owlish. “About Jaime.”

Niall laughs. It sounds nice enough. “Don’t even know him, Brez.”

“First impression, then,” Bressie says, grin going subdued, nervous.

Jesus Christ.

“Seems nice,” Niall says. Seems downright angelic -- Bressie’s pretty blue-eyed boyfriend with the sweet dimples, so polite and well-spoken. “Fit, tall. Got one complaint, though.”

Bressie’s face falls, almost comically. Niall giggles sweetly, flutters his lashes.

Performance art.

“He’s not Irish.”

Bressie laughs at that, eyes sparkling as he grins, warming Niall up from the inside out. For a moment, Niall can pretend the two of them are the same as they used to be.

 

 

**June, 2016, London**

Bressie was always good about talking. Talking about anything -- his feelings, his intentions. All those speeches and interviews about emotions and mental health made him the best communicator Niall knew.

It blew Niall’s mind a bit. He spent six years in the company of people who were terrible at talking unless they had plenty of booze in them. There had been many gut spilling moments with the boys, but it was wisdom tooth removal compared to the ease with which Bressie could have certain conversations.

Conversations like the one they had before they slept together, Bressie staring him down in the entryway of Niall’s London flat before they hooked up with LIC for a pub crawl.

“Thought we were going,” Niall said. He was done up already, only needed to slip on his boots and they could be off, but the expression on Bressie’s face made him cautious. He knew there was something on Bressie’s mind, but considering it was barely a day after they’d kissed, Niall didn’t know if he wanted to know what it was.

“We were -- are,” Bressie said, huffing. Niall arched an eyebrow, willing him to get on with it. “I just need to let y’ know -- I need to talk to y’ --”

“Out with it,” Niall laughed, stepping closer so Bressie would know he wasn’t afraid of whatever Bressie had to say. If Bressie was going to tell him they needed to leave off, then he was alright with that, but if it was anything else, Niall wanted to know. Needed to know, really.

“I _am_ ,” Bressie said, glaring like an overgrown kitten. He didn’t move away when Niall caught his hand, fingers tangling lightly. Intimate and friendly all at once. Bressie adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “I wanted y’ to know that I don’t think I’m going to do well keeping me hands off you tonight.”

The honesty of it was a bright shock to Niall’s system, and a loud laugh burst out of him. Bressie stayed close, but he snatched his hand away, pouting playfully.

“What if I wanted you t’ keep your hands to yourself?” Niall asked challengingly. There was heat in his cheeks, and he definitely didn’t mean it, but he wanted to tease Bressie a bit.

“I’d leave ye be,” Bressie said, completely sincere. Niall laughed again and pushed up on his toes and pulled Bressie in until their noses brushed.

“Definitely don’t want y’ to keep your hands to yourself,” Niall said, leaning in to press a hard kiss to Bressie’s mouth. Bressie responded immediately, moan catching in his throat as he parted his lips for Niall.

Bressie got an arm around Niall’s middle and hoisted him up enough that Niall could hook his legs around Bressie’s waist, easier to kiss when they were level. Bressie spun and pinned Niall to the wall, hands sliding over Niall’s thighs and gripping them roughly, like he was hoping to leave bruises. Niall hoped he would leave bruises.

He gasped against Bressie’s mouth, but Bressie didn’t pause, kept snogging him like that for ages -- teeth biting into Niall’s bottom lip until it was tingling and swollen, big hands tight on his hips and legs. Niall clung to him as hard as he could, trying to anchor himself even as he got dizzier and dizzier from how fucking turned on he was.

He was so hard he wanted to sob, prick pressed up against the inside of his zip. He wiggled against Bressie, trying to hint, but all that made Bressie do was stop kissing him. Niall whimpered, lashes fluttering open.

“Why’d you stop?” he asked, voice rough and low.

“We’re going to be late,” Bressie said. There wasn’t a clock in sight, so Niall didn’t know where he was getting that from.

“I promise I’ll come quick if you wank me,” Niall said cheekily. Bressie blurted out a laugh, cheeks pinking up immediately.

“Save that for later, yeah?” Bressie said, squeezing Niall’s thighs. Niall let his weight sag against the wall, trusting Bressie to keep him propped up.

“There’s going to be a later?” Niall asked eagerly, thrilled by the idea. Bressie snorted, still laughing at Niall.

“If y’ want there to be,” Bressie said. His eyes were so bright they were glittering. It knocked all the air out of Niall’s lungs, how much he wanted Bressie. How he hadn’t realized the breadth and extent of it until Bressie was staring him, so obviously wanting him back.

“‘Course I do,” Niall said belatedly.

“That’s all I wanted to talk about,” Bressie said, backing away from the wall so he could let Niall down. Niall let himself drop even though he didn’t want to, but kept close. He could feel the hot press of Bressie’s prick against his belly through their clothes. He wanted to drop to his knees, jaw aching to suck Bressie off.

“What?” Niall was distracted.

Bressie laughed. “We’re gunna be drinkin’, and I’m gunna want to touch y’ because I always do when I’m pissed --”

“What?” Niall asked, with a sharp inhale. Bressie looked sheepish for a moment. Maybe he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Think this is new, little?” Bressie asked, with a predatory grin. Niall’s stomach quivered with butterflies as Bressie crowded him against the wall. There wasn’t much space; Bressie was so huge looming over Niall like that, making Niall feel small. Niall liked it so much, he felt dizzy.

“Been wanting to kiss y’ for a long time.” Fingers trailed over Niall’s jaw, the gentlest pressure making Niall’s mouth go slack; Bressie’s thumb trailed along his bottom lip. Niall’s tongue darted out before he caught it between his teeth, a quick nip.

Bressie practically growled, a low rumble in his chest that Niall could feel through his own. “Been wanting to get me hands all over y’.”

“Fuck,” Niall said, brain an incoherent jumble of _shit yeah god fuck since when_ \--

“That’s the idea,” Bressie said, turning Niall’s head so he could lean down and press his teeth to Niall’s pulse. A whine caught in Niall’s throat, high and needy. “Just need to know now, so there’s no question later.”

“This is the sexiest way anyone’s asked me for consent,” Niall admitted, chest heaving as Bressie’s tongue pressed to a particularly sensitive spot on Niall’s neck. Might be the only time anyone’s asked him for consent like this. He never planned drunk fucks before they happened, but that’s exactly what Bressie was getting at.

“Is that a yes?” Bressie asked, chuckling.

“An enthusiastic yes.” Niall palmed the back of Bressie’s head as he pressed kisses to Niall’s throat, his jaw, his mouth -- finally.

“‘M not asking y’ to be me boyfriend,” Bressie said, pulling away. “Just casual, like.”

Niall’s stomach flipped at that, reminding him that this was _Bressie_. Someone he’d known for ages, one of his best friends -- that agreeing to fuck him might be a terrible idea. _But_ … It was Bressie, the only thing Niall wanted more than being his best friend was shagging him. He could totally do both.

“I’m a pro at casual,” Niall said, nodding seriously. “Best at it, really.”

“As long as we’re clear,” Bressie said.

“Crystal.” Niall grinned, ducking in for another kiss. “We’re gunna go out with the crew, spend all night watchin’ each other and pretending we’re not. Once we’re too wound up to stick around, we’re coming back here and you’re gunna fuck my brains out.”

“What the fuck, Niall,” Bressie said, with a groan, hand going tight where he was holding onto Niall’s hip. “We could stay here, do that now.”

“‘We’re going to be late’,” Niall said, pitching his voice high and arching an eyebrow. Bressie honest to god giggled, sounding giddy and stupidly sweet.

“Alright, then,” Bressie said, pulling away.

Once there was space between them, Niall could see he was still half hard, bulge in his trousers obscene. Niall’s mouth flooded with saliva, and he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing at Bressie -- pulling him in and spinning them so Bressie was the one with his shoulder blades pressed to the drywall.

“Whu’ --”

Niall smirked and dropped to his knees as gracefully as he could, fingers scrambling at Bressie’s flies. “Changed me mind. Won’t take long,” Niall promised, looking up at Bressie through his lashes. Bressie groaned loudly, head thudding against the wall loudly as he looked away. Niall grinned to himself, pleased. “This okay?”

“‘Course it feckin’ is, idjit,” Bressie said, sighing as Niall worked his cock free.

“Shit,” Niall whimpered, eyeing the size. Bressie had a pretty cock, flushed red and slick with precome. Niall fumbled with his grip, sliding down the foreskin and leaning in to lick at the head, making sure his mouth was full of spit from when he finally swallowed Bressie down.

Tension made Bressie’s thighs shake under Niall’s hands as he held himself still, swearing up a storm above Niall, hands ruffling through Niall’s hair hesitantly. Niall pulled off with a sloppy _pop_ , chin wet.

“Pull my hair,” he said, voice raspy, throat a bit fucked -- literally. Bressie’s eyes were dark as he looked down on Niall, sliding his fingers through Niall’s hair loosely. “Harder.”

Bressie tightened his grip, twisted until there was a dull ache at the crown of Niall’s head. Niall sighed, “Yeah, like that,” and went back down on Bressie, eyes fluttering shut.

They were definitely late. Took too much time kissing each other after Bressie came. Bressie kept palming Niall’s cock, trying to undo his trousers, and Niall had to wiggle away, keep at arm's length so they would get the hell out of there.

“You can make it up to me later,” Niall said, shoving Bressie out the door. He stood in the hall and adjusted his cock, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was rock hard and desperate.

“Whatever you want,” Bressie said, eyes all over Niall, grinning in return when Niall beamed at him, ecstatic.

Niall liked the promise of it. Liked leaving for the pub knowing that he was going to bring Bressie back at the end of the night. Liked knowing they were both going to be thinking about it the whole time they were with their mates -- thinking about getting home and falling into bed, thinking about Bressie pressing Niall into the mattress and dicking into him nice and hard.

Whatever Niall wanted -- he’d gotten that, hadn’t he? Bressie was exactly what Niall wanted.

 

 

**August, 2018, London**

The universe is conspiring against Niall in the worst way. Niall finds himself in Bressie’s new London flat on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon, studio time abandoned due to Jake and Bird’s consumption of bad seafood.

He was restless at home, stuck in the mindset that he was going to spend the day working. He texted Eoghan to hang out before he could think twice, got Bressie’s address and a demand for beer in return.

So here he is, sat on the couch in Bressie’s sitting room, fucking around with one of Bressie’s pretty acoustics for something to do with his hands, fidgeting through chords distractedly, trying to find a sweet spot for the song he has on his mind.

The flat is very _Bressie_. Open floor plan, airy, lots of neutral colors with tasteful pieces of art on the walls -- similar to what Niall likes.

The couch is a big, soft sectional. Which is good, gives them all plenty of space. Eoghan’s in the middle. On the other side of him, Bressie and Jaime are cuddled up. Bressie’s arm over Jaime’s shoulder, Jaime sunk into his side. They look comfortable, dressed down and domestic. Niall’s trying his best to be happy for them. Happy for _Bressie_.

It’s not going well.

Not that he’s thinking about it too hard. Thinking about it means he has to confront the real reasons why he feels like shite about the whole thing, and well. He knows. He knows exactly why, and that’s it. That’s all there is to it. Dwelling on it won’t do him any good, so he’s _not_.

Football is playing on the telly, but no one’s paying attention. Eoghan is telling Jaime some work story Niall’s heard at least three times, so he’s concentrating on the song more than anything. It’s pretty peppy, bright and quick; any lyrics he’d write would be a little bitter, a little lonely. It’s a bit mid-2000s Sara Bareilles, a happy _fuck everything_ feeling.

He likes it, even though he knows it’s about Bressie. A lot of songs are about Bressie nowadays. Niall reckons a muse borne out of messy heartache wants to make itself known more than a happy muse.

It takes a moment to realize the talking stopped. When he looks up, Eoghan’s looking at his phone, but Jaime’s watching him blatantly. He smiles sweetly when he catches Niall’s eye, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, I was watching,” he says. He reaches for Bressie’s hand, traces his fingers over Bressie’s palms and down his wrist, traces the line of the green-blue bracelet before coming back to Bressie’s hand. Niall wonders if Jaimes knows where Bressie got the bracelet. “Is that a song you’re working on?”

“Yeah,” Niall says, forcing himself to ignore all of that as he mentally runs through the chords again. He likes it, he’s going to keep it. Maybe the lyrics will be about the way Jaime touches Bressie like Niall used to touch Bressie. “I was supposed to have studio time today. Me brain’s stuck in music mode.”

“It’s cool,” Jaime says sincerely. “Niall never writes in the sitting room.”

“That’s ‘cause Bressie doesn’t write outside our studio,” Niall says, with a laugh. It’s been ages since he got to see Bressie write, but he doesn’t think _that’s_ changed. It’s been eight years, Bressie always writes in the studio. “Work at work, not at home.”

“Studio?” Jaime echoes.

“Camden,” Niall frowns, fingertips chasing the chords lightly. It’s not loud, but he needs to keep his fingers moving so he doesn’t fidget around too much, betray his nerves. “Our studio, in Ireland.”

“Niall’s one of the owners, babe,” Bressie says with a laugh.

“ _Oh_.” Jaime smiles, less confused this time. “Gotcha.”

Niall probably shouldn’t care that Jaime doesn’t know about his part in Camden. It’s not something that would ever really come up -- ‘ _oh, that Niall bloke I apparently always talk about? Owns the studio with me._ ’ Definitely not a common topic of conversation, but it does a number on him all the same.

Niall wonders if Jaime knows how much of a dream it was for Bressie to own a studio. That he nearly cried when they got it all sorted because it was everything he wanted come true. How he’d constantly go in during construction just to smile at the bare bones of it, texting Niall updates any time he did.

Niall remembers the feeling he got when he and Bressie went in together for the first time. There’s not much Niall believes in -- raised Catholic, but God’s a question mark all the same; raised in Ireland, but only half paid attention to superstitions that everyone else observes with reverence -- but that was actual magic.

It’s satisfying, in a terribly selfish way, that Jaime won’t ever know that feeling. That’s Niall’s and Bressie’s, and it can’t be touched or claimed by anyone else.

“What’s the band doing?” Niall asks Bressie curiously. Something he’s been bitterly wondering ever since Bressie announced he was moving to London again.

The Blizzards put out their record in autumn, did some promo, did some gigs. He assumed Bressie would still be all around Ireland, but here he is… Funny that. The studio and the band were Bressie’s excuses for not moving out to London to be closer to Niall before, and now. Well.

Niall wonders if he gets to be upset about that. Wonders if Bressie even thought about the conversation they had last year, late spring. The two of them stuck inside whilst it rained buckets, watching a movie and lying on the couch together.

Niall was in one of Bressie’s big arse shirts and his pants, stretched out with his feet in Bressie’s lap. Bressie was rubbing them absently, thumb working in circles on the ball of Niall’s foot, somehow completely avoiding his more ticklish spots.

Niall realized with stupid clarity that he wanted Bressie to _stay_. He didn’t want Bressie to fly off back to Ireland in two days. He wanted Bressie there. _Here_ , with him.

“Would you move back?” Niall asked out of nowhere. Bressie looked at him, surprised and something else, something that resembled caution.

“Still don’t care much for London, chief,” Bressie said carefully, dropping his gaze, fingers skating up the boney inside of Niall’s right ankle.

“Right, but like,” Niall swallowed, kept watching Bressie. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make his words sound nonchalant. He could feel the tension in every syllable. “It’d help with the distance.”

Bressie’s fingers stilled. He didn’t look at Niall. “You’re not here all the time,” he said. “Live in LA, hopping around doing promo.”

“Right,” Niall repeated, feeling his insides go hot and tangled, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. “But if we were comin’ back to the same place…”

“I can’t drop everything and move to another country,” Bressie said, still not bothering to meet Niall’s eyes. He tapped out a nervous beat on Niall’s shin before stilling and wrapping his enormous hand around Niall’s skinny calf. “I like being at the studio, takin’ care of it. Still working with the band, too.”

“Yeah, true,” Niall said, trying to ease out of the tizzy he worked himself into. “Valid reasons for stayin’.”

“Reckon it would matter?” Bressie asked, finally lifting his gaze, green eyes dark in the low light of the sitting room. Niall couldn’t read Bressie’s expression at all. His gut twisted sharply.

 _Yes_ , Niall thought, loud and fierce, but what he said was, “You’d be closer.” A shitty noncommittal answer.

Bressie laughed, harsh and low. When he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes. “I would,” he said, shrugging.

Niall let the conversation die, knowing it’d escalate if he pushed it. One of his excuses was that they were so far apart, but it was shite. There would be a distance element with anyone he dated, considering the way he worked.

If Niall pushed it, Bressie would point that out, remind Niall that it didn’t matter which city he was in, they’d still be apart. Niall hadn’t had an argument for that before, didn’t have an argument for it right then, either. He couldn’t promise his answer would change even if Bressie was in London, and they both knew it.

They didn’t bother spending anymore time alone that weekend.

“Everyone’s taking a break,” Bressie says. “I’ll hop up there to do some writing and recording early next year, but we’re not rushed.” Bressie grins; Niall loves the way his face lights up. “Not trying to put out albums once a year like some popstars.”

“It’s not my pace anymore,” Niall says teasingly. “You _know_ this record won’t be ready this year. Maybe I’ll finish it up at Camden, bother you while you’re writing.”

“Record at Camden?” Bressie asks, raising an eyebrow. Eoghan gasps in fake surprise. Niall flips two fingers at the both of them while they laugh.

“I haven’t done any work up there,” Niall says, grinning. “Heard the owners shelled out for some sick equipment.”

“Might have,” Bressie says, smiling back at him. Their gazes hold for a beat, and then Bressie’s looking away, purposefully tangling his fingers with Jaime.

It’s stupid to hope that how deliberately Bressie shifts his attention means something. Like he’s reminding himself not to look, not to play along. Like maybe it’s as difficult to keep himself from Niall as it is for Niall to keep himself from Bressie.

The thought buoys in his chest, making his smile even softer. He deliberately ignores the way Eoghan is smirking at him and picks up the song again, watching the strings instead of the way Bressie and Jaime are sinking into each other even further.

They stay in the living for a little longer until Eoghan starts making noises about being hungry, pulling out his phone to see what take out to get.

“I could make something,” Jaime says, readily.

“You don’t have to babe,” Bressie says, big hand rubbing Jaime’s thigh reassuringly.

Niall looks at Eoghan, figures it’s safer that way.

“I think he does,” Eoghan says, nodding seriously. “It’s a rite of passage, innit?”

“Is it?” Jaime asks, bemused. Bressie huffs out a laugh and flips two fingers at Eoghan.

“It is,” Eoghan whins. “Tell ‘im Niall.”

Niall grins gamely. “Sure is.”

“A right of passage for who?” Jaime asks.

 _Whom_ , Niall silently corrects in his head.

“‘For whom’,” Bressie says. Niall strums, doesn’t look at him. It’s silly to be pleased by something like that, but he is. Apparently, he’ll take anything he can get.

“A right of --” Jaime pinches at Bressie’s thigh playfully. “You knew what I meant.”

“It’s a rite of passage for _you_ ,” Eoghan persists, completely ignoring them.

Niall nods along, makes it seem like he’s invested. He’s not, not really, too out of sorts to be hungry. It’s the anxiety of it, the weirdness that he feels pressing out from under his skin. It’s just him, he knows he’s the only one feeling it, but it’s so acute and he’s so restless over it.

Jaime looks at Bressie. Bressie shrugs.

“Alright, let’s see what Niall has,” Jaime says, clapping his hands together. He untangles himself from Bressie, laughing as Bressie helps him up by shoving at his hips. Jaime swats at him when he stumbles, grinning. Bressie’s smiling back, so wide it looks like his cheeks hurt.

“Bressie has healthy shite,” Niall says flatly, leaning over to set the guitar on its stand for now. _Defense shields down_ , he thinks, in Zayn’s voice. He’ll pick it up again later, he’s sure, but for now he gets up and stretches, and absolutely doesn’t watch the way Bressie mirrors him.

Absolutely does _not_ watch the way Bressie’s shirt slips up his stomach, tanned skin of his belly all on display. Niall’s fingertips ache. He wants to press them into the sensitive dip of Bressie’s hip, wants to hear the surprised noise Bressie would make.

Jaime and Eoghan move into the kitchen, and Bressie disappears off down the hall -- to get something, Niall’s assuming. It only takes a moment of deliberation, and then Niall’s following. He doesn’t bother excusing himself, the other two are distracted enough.

Niall heads down the hallway Bressie disappeared into. He’s following Bressie, but he has the overwhelming urge to snoop. He knew Bressie’s first London flat pretty damn well--even visited the Mullingar place when he made it home--but this is new, and Niall is nosy.

The nearest door is open a little already, so he nudges it open and looks inside. It’s a guest bedroom, all done up in browns and reds, too many pillows stacked up against the headboard. The mattress is probably wicked firm. That’s the only type Bressie can sleep on, and he’s not the type to order something completely different for a guest room.

It feels silly that Niall’s thinking about that. An irrelevant piece of information that Niall’s kept simply because it’s about Bressie.

The next door is the bathroom, across the hall and up a bit more from the guest room. It’s a full bathroom completely with a truly ridiculous tub, jets built into the sides. There’s standing shower, a huge counter with two sinks, and a long mirror.

Niall wanders out, making his way towards the last door: Bressie’s room.

Not Bressie-and-Jaime’s room. They don’t actually live together, but Niall’s sure there’s plenty of Jaime’s things mixed in with Bressie’s. There’s probably a toothbrush next to Bressie’s sink that’s for when Jaime stays over. He probably has a favorite towel and sleeps on the side of the bed furthest from the door, since Bressie always insists on sleeping closest.

Probably.

Niall’s nearly there when Bressie comes out, tugging the door shut behind him. He freezes when he sees Niall dawdling in the hallway. A weird, awkward tension settles between them. Niall clears his throat, waves his hand.

“What’s up, chief?” Bressie asks. There’s two phone chargers in his hand, that must be what he went to get in the first place.

“Snoopin’,” Niall admits, with a grin.

“Gunna snoop in my room?” Bressie asks, with a short laugh that’s all kinds of tense.

“I was gunna find you in your room,” Niall says, rolling his eyes and drifting closer. He pretends not to notice the way Bressie holds himself still, like he’s waiting for Niall to punch him or pounce on him. It hurts Niall’s feelings, a bit. “Not snooping if you’re there.”

“Reasonable,” Bressie says.

“You certainly didn’t show me around,” Niall carries on, giving Bressie an unimpressed look. “Mandy would have ye for those manners.”

Bressie throws back his head and chuckles properly, looking exasperated even as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. “Jesus Christ, if she heard you calling her ‘Mandy’.” Bressie drags a hand down his face, amused. Niall grins.

“Am I still allowed to call her ‘mum’ then?” Niall asks flippantly, butterflies filling up his stomach as he does.

Bressie doesn’t hesitate, watching him in amusement. “Think she’d be upset if you didn’t.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Niall nods thoughtfully. “I am her favorite son.”

“Only ‘cause you’re worth millions more’n me, popstar.” Bressie winks at him, and Niall flushes all over, giddy from the attention. And that’s what got him in this mess in the first place, wasn’t it? So stuck on whether or not Bressie wanted to give him the time of day.

Niall darts in for a hug before he can think twice, whole body aching for it. He wraps his arms around Bressie’s middle and holds on tightly, waiting for Bressie to respond. It only takes a moment for Bressie to relax completely; Niall can feel the way they both go soft for each other on the exhale, like their bodies were waiting for them to stop holding their breath.

Niall’s heartbeat is quick and hard in his chest. Eventually, Bressie’s arms come up and he hugs back properly, holding onto Niall firmly. The moment feels so fragile, Niall doesn’t want to shatter it, but he can’t keep himself from tilting his head up as they draw away and pressing his lips to Bressie’s neck, the butterfly wing rhythm of his pulse.

Bressie doesn’t scold him, doesn’t say anything. All he does his tighten his grip on Niall for a moment, squeezing quickly before he draws away completely.

“Missed you, big face,” Niall says, quiet and sincere. Being in the hall feels alone enough that he’s not bothered by the way his voice is rougher than normal. The way he can’t quite meet Bressie’s eyes.

The look on Bressie’s face is a little fond, a little sad, a little too familiar.

“Missed you too, chief,” Bressie says. He taps Niall under the chin with two fingers, gets Niall to look at him. “I’m glad you’re coming around.”

“Me too,” Niall says, smiling tightly. Bressie knows something’s up, Niall can see it written all over his face, but he doesn’t ask. He looks past Niall to the kitchen and back again before he smiles and straightens up.

“What's that they say about all work and no play?” he asks. Niall rolls his eyes.

“Gets shite done,” Niall replies. “Don’t act like you don’t work your arse off.”

“You know me,” Bressie says.

 _Not really_ , Niall wants to say, but he doesn’t. It’s a mean thought, and not exactly the truth. Instead he nods in agreement, smiles. Hopefully a little more convincing this time.

“I did come back here to wee,” Niall says, when the next beat of silence lingers too long.

Bressie rolls his eyes and gently shoves Niall away, smiling. “No one’s stopping y’.”

Niall lingers in the bathroom feeling a bit sorry for himself. Not pity, necessarily, but there are only so many times he can be confronted with the fact that he and Bressie are so far from who they once were. It used to be easier than anything to be around Bressie. Now there’s awkward moments, and lingering tension, and stilted conversation.

It’ll go on like this, he thinks, and he’ll never know what to say, or where to put his hands.

When he comes out, he hears voices from the kitchen, so he walks slowly. The hall is on the same side of the house as the kitchen, tucked further back, so there’s no chance of anyone seeing him as he eavesdrops.

There’s no reason to, can’t imagine they’re talking about him, but he stills and listens, kick drum pulse loud in his ears.

“I, for one, am pleased Brez always finds people who know their way around a kitchen,” Niall hears Eoghan say, laughing. The fridge opens, and there’s a few dull thuds as things get put on the counter.

“Right, your last relationship was with a cook, too, right?” Jaime asks.

“Well, she wrote a cookbook,” Bressie laughs, without skipping a beat.

Cold trickles down Niall’s spine, disappointment sinking in his gut. It’s stupid to care, he knows it is. It’s stupid, especially since Niall himself doesn’t know what to call it, doesn’t know how to label it. Stupid to think that Bressie might… _claim_ Niall as a relationship when Niall kept saying no.

It might have been shit to keep bringing Bressie back to bed considering all of that, but Niall _never_ said his feelings for Bressie were casual, just said he wasn’t going to date Bressie. They were shagging, but it meant more than that and they both knew it.

Or, he thought they did.

“More of a hobby, though,” Bressie adds.

“She never made us chips from scratch,” Eoghan says cheekily.

Niall doesn’t think he’s felt more miserably out of place than he does now -- stood there in the hallway of Bressie’s new London flat, listening in on them talking about a part of Bressie that they’ve all decided Niall doesn’t belong to. Like what went on between them wasn’t even enough to deserve an honorable mention.

There’s a lurch in Niall’s stomach and a sharp, painful throb in his heart -- and it’s fucked, isn’t it? That Niall didn’t realize he was in love with Bressie before Bressie decided to move on.

 

 

This was a bad idea.

Niall knew it was a bad idea before he got here, but he still came. A night for the crew, drinking at Bressie’s flat. _Just_ the crew, no boyfriends or bandmates -- Niall _knew_ it was going to be a bad idea. There aren’t enough square meters to stifle Niall’s hyper-awareness of Bressie at any given moment.

The booze makes his head swimmy and his hands achy. He wants to touch -- he wants to collapse into Bressie’s lap, press his face to Bressie’s neck. It’s hard to fight past years of conditioning -- he’d always been cuddly with Bressie, even before they were shagging. Now it’s like Niall can’t be near him at all, like he’s breaking some unspoken rule if he’s within a foot of Bressie.

“This is a bad idea,” Niall groans out loud to himself, tugging another beer out of the fridge.

“Don’t drink more if you’re gunna be sick all over me floors, chief,” Bressie says, right behind him.

It’s a miracle that Niall doesn’t jump three feet in the air. He whirls and comes face-to-chest with Bressie. Not _right_ there, but a little closer than socially acceptable, he thinks. Still not close enough, though.

“N-not sick,” Niall says, with a sideways smile. “‘M fine. Beer?” Bressie nods, so Niall hands off the one he’s holding and grabs out another before closing the refrigerator door.

He has to step back so it can swing shut, and he ends up with his back against Bressie’s chest, walking Bressie backwards until he hits the counter and stops them both. There’s barely enough room for the door, but Niall manages to shut with his foot, twirling so he’s not pressed all against Bressie.

Bressie reaches out to steady Niall as he stumbles over his own feet, palm warm where it cups Niall’s hip. His heart trips in his chest from how close they are, from the fact that Bressie’s touching him at all.

“Cheers,” he says, swallowing thickly. He tips his head back to smile at Bressie, finds Bressie looking down on him fondly. There’s that ridiculous softness to his eyes that makes all the breath in Niall’s lungs stall up. Years and years have gone by, and Bressie’s never stopped looking at him like he was something special.

Not even in recent months. Which is some sort of miracle, Niall reckons.

“What’s a bad idea?” Bressie asks. He smells kinda boozy, kinda sweaty. Niall wants to bury his face in Bressie’s chest and never come up for air.

“Dunno,” Niall lies, squinting up at Bressie. Maybe if it seems like he’s a bit pissed, Bressie’ll blame the beer.

Bressie looks unconvinced.

“Shut yer face up,” Niall says petulantly. Bressie laughs at him, hand tightening on his hip. Niall didn’t realize it was still there. He inhales softly, swaying a bit towards Bressie.

Bressie holds still as Niall drifts into his space. If this was seven months ago, he’d lift onto his toes and press a kiss to Bressie’s pink lips. The urge is so overwhelming he feels consumed by it, mouth tingling, veins humming -- but he doesn’t, he reaches out with a surprisingly steady hand and trails his fingers up Bressie’s forearm until he’s pressing into the soft crook of Bressie’s elbow.

“I know I said this, but I missed you loads,” Niall says, looking up at Bressie through his lashes. Bressie smiles, tiny and sweet, hand sliding up and down his side absently before Bressie cups the back of his neck. Niall has to catch the noise that threatens to escape him, knowing it’ll be far too needy.

“Missed you too, little,” he says, smile growing wider. “S’not the same without you around.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Niall says, with a wink, pulling out of Bressie’s space so he’s not suffocating. So he’s not tempted to do something stupid like... snog Bressie, or tell Bressie he wants another chance.

There’s a red flush to Bressie’s cheeks when he laughs. Niall doesn’t know if it’s the wink or the beer, but he hopes it was him. Always wants that reaction out of Bressie.

Niall hops up onto the counter next to Bressie, tries not to think about the way he can feel Bressie’s heat all along his side. Might be a different flat, years removed, but he gets a flashback to the first time they kissed -- Bressie between his legs, hand on Niall’s cock -- and tries to suppress his shiver.

“C’mon,” Bressie says, turning to him, leaning on his elbow against the counter. There’s barely any space between them. Only a bit of breathing room, but nothing else.“Tell me all about promo with that Shawn lad. Takin’ over the US together, aren’t ye?”

Niall laughs delightedly, cheeks going warm. Bressie’s eyes are more grey than green today, like a stormy Irish sky, and Niall loves the way it makes him miss home.

“Seems so,” he says, with a shrug. They were in the top five for six consecutive weeks, now they’re solidly in the top 10. It’s been a good couple of months.

“S’good, managed to give everyone what they wanted,” Niall continues with a grin. “Like, Shawn got the questions about our collab before This Town even hit the radio, I’unno. It’s a good tune. I’m glad people like it.”

“It’s massive, chief.” Bressie dimples, eyes nearly disappearing from how wide he’s grinning. Niall wants to press a kiss to every smile line around his mouth and by his eyes. He doesn’t.

“Shawn’s good at stayin’ high on the charts,” Niall agrees. That’s definitely an advantage -- Shawn’s overwhelming success on international radio.

“Like you don’t write sustainable records,” Bressie scoffs, looking amused. Niall ducks his head to hide the way he rolls his eyes.

“‘Sustainable records’, Christ, Brez,” Niall giggles, kicking at Bressie’s thigh. Bressie’s grin is cheeky as he gently grabs Niall’s leg to keep him from getting in a good shot. The press of his fingers around Niall’s ankle is distracting.

“C’mon, what else?” Bressie asks, after a beat of silence. Niall wonders if he knows he’s got his thumb under the bottom of Niall’s jean leg, stroking over his ankle bone. “Tell me about album number two.”

“S’coming.” Niall would shrug, but he’s afraid too much movement would remind Bressie to let him go, so he stays very still. “I’m like, writing more on me own. The first album I had Julian come in the studio loads, but I’m doing that less. It’s, uh, different.”

“Weird not having anyone to bounce ideas off of,” Bressie says sympathetically, knowing exactly what Niall means.

“Yeah, that’n like --” Niall chews on his bottom lip, tries to say enough without saying too much. “Felt less personal being able to say the weren’t _all_ me. Now they definitely are.”

Niall wonders if Bressie will know. If Bressie will listen to his album and know which songs are about him, or if he’ll think Niall wrote about someone else completely. Like anyone else could possibly have done a number on Niall the way Bressie did. Like anyone else could have wiggled their way under Niall’s ribs and pressed right up against his traitorous heart without Niall realizing it.

Something Niall never, ever thought would happen, and yet...

“Know that feeling,” Bressie says, with a thoughtful smile, squeezing Niall’s ankle quickly before releasing it. “Keep on, tell me about your life, little. S’been ages. When’re you getting a dog?”

Niall laughs out loud and humors him, talks about whatever pops into his head, heels bouncing lightly off the cabinets. He keeps talking through one beer, another. Asks Bressie about home -- about his mum and da, the rest of the family.

“Get calls everyday,” Bressie says. “Worse’n the first time I moved out here.”

“They got used to havin’ you around,” Niall reminds him. “Able to pop in whenever. Bully you into going to Mass. Dinner on the Lord’s Day, like.”

“Yeah, Niall Breslin, devoted Catholic,” Bressie says, rolling his eyes and laughing at Niall. “They get me on holidays.”

Niall hums in agreement. “Midnight Mass.” He meets Bressie’s eyes, smiling softly. “Christmas in Mullingar is always memorable.”

Bressie laughs stiffly, dropping his gaze. “Sure is,” he agrees, taking a drink.

An awkward silence descends over them, loud with everything they haven’t bothered saying up until this point. It’s all there, crowded on the tip of Niall’s tongue, but he keeps his mouth shut and picks at the label of his beer.

“Gunna see what Eoghan’s doing,” Bressie says, after another beat. Niall’s heart sinks right to the bottom of his gut. Bressie’s smile is unconvincing. “Good chat.”

“Great chat,” Niall says, lips flattening into a thin line. The displeasure doesn’t register with Bressie, though. He’s already pushing off the counter, grabbing another beer out of the fridge before saluting Niall and heading over to where Eoghan’s sat with David on the couch.

It’s a bit harder to ignore the knots in his stomach after that. After having Bressie so close, talking to him like it hasn’t been ages since they’ve had a conversation like that. It’s silly that something so simple should make Niall’s heart swell and burst -- grateful it happened, upset that it ended.

There’s a bottle of whiskey close, so Niall grabs it, along with a stack of shot glasses, and wanders to where Deo’s with the girls on the patio.

“I feel entirely too sober,” Niall says when he gets out there, placing the booze in front of Deo. The girls exclaim happily. Deo grins at him, scraping the cherry of his smoke off on the bottom of his shoe and reaching for the bottle.

“Let’s fix that right up.”

 

 

The room’s gone a bit wobbly, which might be an issue if he tries to sit upright, but he doesn’t think he will anytime soon. Besides, Laura makes an excellent pillow, and she’s humming Johnny Cash whilst she runs her fingers through his hair, so he doesn’t exactly _want_ to sit upright.

“It’s getting long,” she says offhandedly, grabbing a handful and tugging before she gentles again. Niall makes a noise of agreement. “Miss the blonde still.”

“It’s been nearly two years,” Niall says. The words feel weird coming out of him. Thick. “Everyone’s got to get over the blonde.”

“Think Bressie’d like it,” Natalia says, dropping onto his legs. Niall whines and kicks at her until she’s lying between them instead of on top of them. She giggles. “Nostalgic, y’know?”

“Don’ matter,” Niall says, even though he’s considering it. Genuinely wondering whether or not Bressie would be more into him if he were blonde again.

It takes a moment to remind himself that Bressie doesn’t give a shit one way or the other, and it doesn’t matter if Niall’s brunette or blonde, or if his hair was cotton candy pink -- if Bressie wanted him, he’d want Niall either way, and Bressie doesn’t want him anymore.

“Remind him of the good old days, hmm?” Natalia keeps on. When Niall tilts his head to look at her, she’s wiggling her eyebrows outrageously. He’s goes a little cross-eyed watching.

“Oi, fuck off,” he sighs, but it’s lacking any heat. There must be something pathetic in his voice, because Natalia raises both eyebrows at him questioningly. He doesn’t say anything else.

“Touchy,” Laura says, after there’s been a long beat of silence.

“Bressie a sore topic, then?” Natalia asks curiously, tipping her back to look up at him. She’s gotten to the droopy-eyed drunk bit of the evening, which means she’ll insist on asking invasive questions, and he’s got enough beer warming him up that he’ll answer her with tragic honesty.

“A _bit_ ,” Niall drawls, arching an eyebrow at the ceiling. The swat Natalia aims at his leg for it doesn’t even hurt. She still rubs over it like an apology. Niall huffs.

“S’bit rough, innit?” Laura asks gently, scratching her nails over his scalp soothingly, like it’ll help his broken heart at all. Just makes him a bit sleepy. “Jaime around.”

“Shitty,” Niall agrees, biting his lip. He thinks about the kitchen, how a stupid comment made Bressie freeze up and go away. Thinks about trying to talk to Bressie. He knows they’ll never be able to talk how they need to.

“Jealous?” Natalia asks, chin digging into his thigh. When Niall looks at her, she’s pouting sympathetically at him.

Confused, more like. “He’s been wearing the feckin’ bracelet I got him in Asia.” Niall’s fingers close around his own wrist to demonstrate. “Dunno why.”

“Think you might,” Laura sing-songs.

Hope blooms brightly in the corner of his mind, escaping from the lock-box Niall’s been shoving it into. All his defenses down from booze and the two of them talking at him so nicely allows the thought to wiggle free.

“He’s with Jaime.”

Handsome, tall, blue-eyed Jaime. Uncomplicated to be with. No history of rejection, no unanswered questions. No nights spent together, sleeping next to each other, and still wondering _what if_. The ‘yes’ Bressie deserved.

Niall’s chest aches and throbs. He flattens out his hand, feels the bassline of it under his palm.

“Sure is,” Natalia says, with a stern nod. “Great excuse to move to London right as you’re working on your second album.”

“He knew you were gunna be here, right?” Laura asks, voice chalk full of fake innocence.

Even with his brain lagging from the drink, he knows what they’re implying, and he doesn’t think he likes it. “I asked him to come,” he says. “Like, before. Last year, asked him if he would move back.”

“Last year? Whilst y’ were constantly ‘talking’ about being together.” Laura removes her hands from Niall’s hair long enough to put bunny ears around the word ‘talking’, looking completely unimpressed.

“It wasn’t every time,” Niall insists. It wasn’t. Only a few times -- he only told Bressie ‘no’ a few times. It was enough, but it was still only a few --

“Yeah, mostly it was shagging,” Natalia laughs. “Shagging, and going out together -- pubs, dinner dates --”

“Watching golf channel between shagging,” Laura adds. Then, with disdain, “ _Cuddling_.”

“Proper shacked up,” Natalia agrees. She and Laura look at each other and gasp. “You were _dating_.”

“Weren’t,” Niall reminds them, frowning up at the ceiling. If he wasn’t feeling so bone-idle, he’d sit up and scowl at them, but he doesn’t want to move. Admittedly, there was a certain level of domestic… comfort, but it was them being _friends_. Friends who shagged.

“That’s why you’re all twisted up about it,” Laura says, shaking her head quickly. She makes him look at her, hands framing his face, delicate and warm and annoying as hell. “He never even broke up with you.”

“Christ, shut yer mouth,” he says, swatting at her so she lets go. Once she does, he closes his eyes, embraces the dizziness.

Didn’t fucking _break up_ with him, of all things. There’s a few minutes of silence, no doubt the two of them sharing significant looks over him, but Niall keeps his eyes firmly closed. Laura resumes her petting after a bit.

“Jaime might be around,” Natalia says, picking at the knee of Niall’s jeans. Niall barely registers it, already drifting. “But Bressie still looks at Niall like he always has, doesn’t he? With that heartbreaking, like, devotion.”

If Niall could make himself protest he would, but his whole body is stupid heavy, reckons he’ll forget she even said something so outrageous when he’s sober.

“ _Love_ shite,” Natalia whispers, giggling.

“Idjits,” Laura agrees fondly.

 

 

Niall’s woken up by a nudge to his shoulder.

It’s all very cliche, the way his eyes flutter open and he sees the fond smile on Bressie’s face. He returns it, whole body going warm, and for a moment he forgets what they are to each other -- just remembers when their language was laughter and soft touches and gentle grins, when he got to fall asleep in Bressie’s arms, when Bressie wanted to _keep Niall_ \--

It tumbles into place slowly, that sour feeling that’s taken up permanent residence at the bottom of Niall’s gut returning as soon as he thinks it. He wonders if it’ll ever go away, or if he’ll have to get used to it being there. Maybe it’ll only bother him every so often, like his knee does when it rains. The ache in his chest is worse than the ache there, but maybe it won't always be.

“Shit, sorry,” Niall says, sitting up slowly, scrubbing at his face with his hand. The drunkenness has worn off almost completely. He’s still fuzzy around the edges, but sober, painfully sober. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

The living room lights are down, but there’s still enough to see by. The couch is empty -- the whole flat seems empty -- patio dark and shadowed. The hall light is on, a bright invitation.

“S’alright,” Bressie says, stepping back so Niall has space. He’s in soft looking sleep trousers and a loose shirt, barefoot on the carpet, and the ache in Niall’s chest expands so much he has to hold his breathe to keep it in.

Niall hates the empty air between them. The fact that they can’t figure out how to occupy the same space anymore. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. If they’re not reaching for Bressie...

“Just wanted to move you to a room,” Bressie continues stiffly. “So, y’ don’t get a crick in the old neck.”

Niall sighs, groping under the coffee table for his trainers. His fingers hook over the backs of a pair of Converse, and he drags them out. White Chucks, but massive, Bressie’s then. The pair next to them is his. Same white chucks, significantly smaller.

He never wears these anymore. He wore them because he knew Bressie’s would be lying around. Wanted something to relate to so badly he orchestrated his own coincidence. Not that it matters, Bressie didn’t say anything, didn’t notice.

“I should go,” Niall says, yanking at the laces. There’s a fluttering in his chest, a warm hope he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

This story ends the same as it always does, Niall leaves. Niall always leaves.

“It’s three in the mornin’, chief,” Bressie says, sounding grumpy about it. Shit, Niall didn’t realize it was that late. “Might as well stay.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Niall says, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his trainers. His hands are shaking as he fumbles with the laces, fingers big and clumsy. It’s always easy to set his nerves off. Any hint of anxiety and away he goes.

“Why not?” Bressie asks, a little short and harsh. Harsher than Niall thinks he’s got a right to be.

Niall pauses, breathes, stays calm. It’s not an easy feat. He’s got so much pent up frustration he’s bursting with it. Hydrogen combustion right behind his rib cage. Lashing out would be a relief, but he breathes through it, tries to steady himself.

“I should go,” he says.

“Busy in the mornin’?” Bressie asks, frowning at Niall.

Niall scoffs. It’s meaner than he means it to be, but it does feel pretty good.

“Just can't stick around,” Niall says, going back to his laces, making a show of putting them on. There’s a long moment where neither of them say anything. All the breath is stalled up in Niall’s lungs, waiting. His heart’s pounding in his chest like a kick drum. He can hear it in his ears.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Bressie says, as Niall pulls on his second trainer. “ _We_ don’t have to be like this.”

Niall stays quiet, tying up his laces, tugging to make sure they’re nice and tight. It feels weird when he tilts his head and actually looks at Bressie. He’s already so much taller than Niall, and sitting exaggerates the difference even more.

Niall stands, straightening his rumpled clothes.

“Kinda does have to be like this,” he says, chewing the inside of his cheek.

The expression on Bressie’s face is so guarded Niall wants to laugh. Why did he ever think they could go back to the way they were before this mess?

“So what, this is us now?” Bressie’s doing that thing where he tries to make himself smaller, shoulders hunching, head dipping low even as he meets Niall’s eyes. Always happens when he’s feeling particularly overwhelmed, anxious. “Actin’ civil and nothing else. Practically ignoring each other?”

“Guess so,” Niall shrugs, keeping his face blank.

It hurts so much.

Especially when all Niall wants to do is get closer. Especially stood here in front of Bressie, body begging for his warmth; little moth, big burning flame. Especially when there’s a buzz in his fingers to touch, and a lurch in his throat to confess what he’s been feeling.

And he knows he could, too. Knows with confidence bordering on impertinence that if he told Bressie everything, he’d have Bressie back. It doesn’t matter that Jaime’s around. Not with them. It just, _can’t_.

“Goddamn it, Niall,” Bressie says, sharp and quick. Niall stiffens, narrowing his eyes.

“Don’t,” he warns, knowing where this conversation is going before Bressie bothers voicing it. Sometimes he thinks he knows Bressie far too well. “Don’t act like this is all me.”

“It _is_ all you.” Bressie laughs. It’s so condescending Niall’s jaw twitches. “I’ve been tryin’. I want to see you. You’re busy -- you’re busy, and when we’re around each other it’s like I’m not even here.”

“I’ve had a lot to do in the studio,” Niall says, clinging to his work excuse tightly. He doesn’t have anything else, not really. “I’ve been tired --”

“You don’t even act the same around me,” Bressie says, voice rougher than it was a second ago. That deliberately blank look on his face is faltering, and Niall can see all the cracks in it, all the vulnerability underneath.

Niall doesn’t know whether to scream at him, or give up and cry.

There’s a part of Niall’s brain that’s diligently reminding him that this conversation is a bad idea; that saying anything to Bressie is a _terrible_ idea. It’s rational sounding enough, firmly telling him _no, don’t do this, do not_ \-- but there’s a larger part of his brain that wants this. _Needs this_. Needs Bressie to know how tore up Niall is over it…

How broken his fucking heart is.

“I can’t,” Niall admits, after a long silence. It barely comes out, garbled and half-bitten. His brain knows it’s a stupid thing to say, but he gets it out, lets it linger between them.

 _Cannot_. Incapable of.

“‘Can’t’?” Bressie asks, slowly. Who knew one, single word could sound so disbelieving.

“I can’t do it,” Niall repeats, and feels the unwanted rush of emotion as he does, heart lurching. His face goes hot with embarrassment. He looks at the ground, eyes watering dangerously. He can’t look at Bressie anyway, he’s so humiliated.

“I can’t be around you,” he confesses. Then, quickly, “It’s too hard. It’s too much.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bressie says, quiet and low. He probably knows that Niall’s about to shake apart, doesn’t want to startle it into happening too soon.

Niall doesn’t want to do this. Jesus Christ, he doesn’t want to do this. He wants Bressie to understand, but he doesn’t want to tear himself open in the hopes that it will happen. It’s all soft and vulnerable and _aching_ there. He spent so much time denying how much he wanted Bressie to stay that he doesn’t know how to admit it.

He doesn’t have any words for it. He doesn’t have an explanation to give Bressie. Can’t justify why he pushed Bressie away and then decided he pushed too far. There’s no excuse for how selfish he wants to be -- how selfish he knows he’s _going_ to be --

“Can’t be your friend,” Niall says to the tips of his white Converse, resisting the urge to scrub a hand across his eyes. He doesn’t want Bressie to know how close to crying he is, not right now.

“Damnit,” Bressie exhales loudly. “Goddamnit, Niall.”

“Bressie --”

“I knew we shouldn’t have,” Bressie says, nearly to himself, but Niall catches it, temper flaring hotly. He feels the outrage pressed between his shoulder blades, tightening like a vice around him. “I knew this was a --”

“What?” Niall snaps, finally looking at Bressie. It’s so quick that tears spill down his face, but Niall isn’t thinking about that at all, sudden anger overwhelming. “What was it Bressie?”

“Niall.” Bressie goes soft, reaches for him, thinks Niall’s crying over him and -- yeah, he is, but he’s mostly frustrated. Feels equal part enraged and miserable, feels it all like a wildfire consuming him whole.

“Don’t,” Niall says, rocking backwards so Bressie gets the hint. “Finish your thought.”

Bressie drops his hand. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“ _Say it_ ,” Niall says, kindle to fire, burning him up. It’s so much easier to be angry. Easier than the stricken look on Bressie’s face, the confusion in his bright eyes. Niall’s choking on all his words and he’s _so_ miserable. This is _miserable_. “Just say it.”

“Niall,” Bressie tries again, stepping forward so Niall steps back.

“Say it,” Niall repeats, voice shaking. He’s properly crying now, can’t seem to stop it. There’s so much pressure on his chest, he can’t catch his breath. He wraps his arms around his middle like it'll do anything for the way he's falling apart. “Say it, say it. Just say it was a mistake, just _say it_. Tell me you regret it, say it.”

“You were never a mistake,” Bressie says, voice cracking.

“I want to be,” Niall confesses, wiping his wrist across his eyes. It doesn’t help. There are more tears, the silent kind that come without permission. Leaky faucet tears. “I should be.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I can’t do this,” Niall says, instead of saying _you deserved better, you’ve always deserved better._ “I can’t keep feeling like this.”

Inhale, exhale, shaky sigh.

“I’ve lost the plot, love,” Bressie says, gentle like he’s trying to calm a spooked colt, and Niall ugly laughs at him for it, so he doesn’t sob any harder from how much _love_ lances through his heart.

He shakes his head, taking deep breaths, trying to stop the overflow. He can’t drive messed up like this, he’s got to calm down so he can leave. He can’t stay here tonight, not if there isn’t any hope of climbing into bed next to Bressie.

“It’s fine,” Niall says, steadying himself. He takes a couple more deep breaths, clearing his head.

“It’s not _fine_ ,” Bressie says firmly. “You don’t look fine.”

“Leave off, Brez,” Niall says, shaking his head, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he drops them, Bressie is closer than he was before. Niall doesn’t gasp in surprise, but it’s a close thing.

“You’re not fine,” Bressie says. “I’m trying to understand.”

“Don’t need you to,” Niall lies, letting annoyance creep into his tone at the way Bressie is looming, large and concerned and too close. Niall presses his hand to Bressie’s chest and applies pressure until Bressie gets the hint and backs up; he pretends not to notice the way Bressie’s heart is pounding hard under his palm. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorting through some shit.”

“Shit about us?” Bressie asks, looking down at Niall’s hand, then back up at Niall. Curiosity sharpens in his eyes, and Niall knows there’s a few ways this could go. He’s terrified of every option, doesn’t know what happens after.

“Doesn’t matter,” Niall says, sniffling petulantly and dropping his hand.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Bressie says, frustration creeping into his voice. “Now, you’ve changed your mind.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to talk,” Niall dismissively. He spins and heads towards the kitchen to find his wallet and keys, swiping at his eyes as he goes. All his insides feel chaffed; he needs to leave.

“Fuck, Niall!” Bressie pads along behind him quickly, catching up. The words are so loud in the wide open space of the flat.

“Does he know?” Niall asks, whirling on Bressie. He shouldn't ask, he knows he shouldn't.

“What?” Bressie asks, stopping short. There’s a good distance between them. Probably for the best.

“Jaime. Does he know about us?”

“Oh,” Bressie says, blinking at Niall in surprise. It’s almost comical. He shrugs casually, like it doesn’t matter. When he turns his head, Niall can see how tight his jaw goes, clenching down before he answers. “No.”

No.

Jaime doesn’t know about Niall and Bressie.

Right.

It’s not a surprise. He didn’t expect a ‘yes’ after what he heard in the kitchen. A certain someone might be far less amiable if he knew about Niall shagging his boyfriend for months and months and months.

If he knew how much Bressie wanted Niall -- wanted Niall in all the ways he had Jaime, _before_ he even met Jaime.

It still hurts, even expecting it. It still burns Niall up, and he hates this all so much -- face hot with humiliation even as anger licks through him. “You know for all that shite you talked about wanting us to be together, you sure like to act as if it didn’t happened.”

It takes a moment, Bressie blinking and blinking and blinking. Caught off guard. “What am I supposed to say?”

“I’unno, maybe the truth,” Niall mutters, setting his chin stubbornly and staring at Bressie. Bressie looks back just as hard. “Kinda shite that you’re keeping it from him, innit?”

“He doesn’t need to know everything I got up to before we even met,” Bressie says, nostrils flaring. There’s a pink flush to his cheeks, and Niall can practically see him wrestling with his temper.

The reaction gives Niall a small, victorious thrill. He knows it’s terrible. Knows he shouldn’t push, that it’s not his place to, but he can’t stop himself. This is a bruise Niall can’t help but press into, waiting to see how much pressure he can apply before it really starts to hurt.

“No, right, that makes sense,” Niall says flatly, chest burning like a coal from the anger, from the _embarrassment_ of it. All these too big feelings eating him up, and Bressie didn’t even bother telling Jaime that he and Niall were anything at all. Niall smiles at Bressie tightly. It feels like he’s baring his teeth.

That terrible, blank look is back on Bressie’s face. “Nothin’ to tell, is there?” he asks.

 _Nothing_.

Niall’s got stories scribbled, and half-written songs, and some ill-attempts at poetry about _nothing_. He’s got pages upon pages of _nothing_ in leather bound journals, shoved in with the gear he takes to his studio. He’s got two years of the softest memories imaginable and a heart full up to the brim with _nothing_ , but that’s what it was, right?

“Nothing,” Niall echoes, feeling the weight of it on his tongue. It must be ironic, how heavy it is.

“Just a whole lotta time spent on someone who kept telling me ‘no’,” Bressie says darkly.

“Sorry to waste your time,” Niall snaps without even thinking about it.

From the look on Bressie’s face, you’d think Niall had reached out and smacked Bressie across the cheek. An apology gets caught in his throat, Niall can’t make himself take the words back -- he knows it’s not true, knows Bressie’s better than that, but it feels so good to lash out.

“You know that’s not what it was,” Bressie says, voice going low. Niall’s got him properly riled up now, even if he’s trying not to show it.

“Seems like it, doesn’t it?” Niall goads. “Got nowhere with it. It was just a few fucks.”

Bressie’s eyes flash. “Got you carrying on, doesn’t it? Didn’t think ye’d be the jealous type, chief.”

Niall clenches his jaw, stomach fluttering up his throat. “I’m not,” he lies.

“Then why are you asking?”

“You’re right,” Niall laughs stiffly, devoid of humor. “There’s no reason to want to talk about it. No reason for your boy to know about the two of us. You spent two years trying to domesticate me, but that’s _nothin_ ’.”

Bressie doesn’t respond.

The last time they were together it was Christmas, both of them home in Mullingar. Instead of staying at their parents’ houses, they had a hotel suite all to themselves; three days of marathon sex in the four-poster bed, waking up every morning in each other's arms and kissing the taste of mimosas out of Bressie’s mouth.

Niall thinks he would have figured it out then, if he had bothered thinking about it, all soft from the most romantic weekend of his life. But he didn’t think about it.

It took him a couple of weeks to even realize that Bressie hadn’t bothered with a speech about how they should be together. He didn’t bring it up at all, didn’t make any jokes or drop any hints. He let it be and Niall hadn’t even been suspicious at the time, but now --

“You didn’t want me,” Bressie says finally. “There’s only so many times a man can be told ‘no’ before he decides he’s got to move on.”

Niall inhales sharply. He knew it, he had the thought himself, but hearing Bressie say it hurts. Hurts the same as if Bressie decided to pry Niall’s ribs open himself, and get his hand around Niall’s heart.

“So what.” Niall’s throat feels thick. “Christmas was goodbye?” The idea guts Niall, makes his eyes go tight at the corners again.

“Might have been,” Bressie says quietly. Niall wants to sick all over the floor.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, meeting Bressie’s eyes. He’s crying again, tears spilling over without permission. His swipes at his eyes roughly. “I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t _want me_ ,” Bressie repeats, big hands closing and clenching. The air all around them is tight with tension; Niall’s thrilled at the prospect of it snapping completely. “You made it clear.”

“We were together!” Niall says, thinking about what Laura said last night. It tears out of him, loud and desperate. “I didn’t want to admit it, but we were.” His voice breaks -- cracks, splinters -- “We were _together_ and then we weren’t, and I didn’t get a warning or a break up --”

“You don’t get to do that,” Bressie says, hand slicing through the air as he cuts Niall off. “You don’t get to act like we were dating when you kept telling me ‘no’. It wasn’t a relationship. It was nothin’.”

“I was in love with you!” Niall spits, knowing it’ll hurt.

It’s meant to hurt.

Bressie stares at him.

It shouldn't be possible, but Niall’s ears fill up with static as his pulse speeds up even more, quick and painful. His whole body is humming with tension, base of his skull tight. Tears keep trailing down his cheeks, completely unaware of the emotional shift. All the air in his lungs compresses, like he’s in a big crowd and there’s people pressed on him from all sides.

Emotional claustrophobia.

“Don’t,” Bressie warns quietly, voice rough. Niall has no idea what he’s thinking, the look on Bressie’s face unrecognizable.

“You think I’m _lying_ \--”

“Don’t say that shite --”

“I can say whatever I fucking _please_ \--”

Bressie strides forward and grabs him, big hands curling around Niall’s upper arms, gentle but unyielding. The look on his face is downright _scared_ , and Niall gulps down a surprised breath.

“You don’t mean that,” Bressie tells him firmly. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything. “You’re jealous as hell, being immature because you can’t handle my attention being elsewhere.”

That’s the first time Bressie’s ever dared to call him immature. Niall doesn’t even care. He laughs.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Niall says, hiccuping out a giggle. The hard bassline of his pulse is consuming his nerves; his entire being is the rhythmic staccato of a truthful, terrifying confession.

The next moment is suspended between them, so tense Niall can’t breathe through it; he holds the air in his lungs so he doesn’t have to try. They stare at each other -- Bressie’s eyes dark, dark, dark without proper light to see by, and Niall _can’t breathe_ \--

Bressie presses their mouths together, hard and unforgiving, hands coming up to frame Niall’s face, keeping him in place as he licks into Niall’s mouth. It feels like Niall’s drowning in it, unable to catch his breath with how rough Bressie’s kissing him.

Niall groans his approval and grabs at Bressie’s waist, pulling him in so they’re pressed together tightly, lifting up on his toes so the angle is more comfortable.

Touching Bressie feels right. Feels like a _relief_. Feels like home.

Niall gasps when Bressie bites on his bottom lip and tugs, mouth already buzzing from how hard Bressie’s going at it. Niall doesn’t care. Niall will give Bressie whatever he wants, however he wants it, as long as he wants Niall.

Bressie’s hands slide over his shoulders, thumb tracing his collarbone through his shirt. He wraps his hand around the back of Niall’s neck, runs his fingers through Niall’s hair before he tightens his grip and makes Niall moan.

The feel of Bressie all around Niall, touching Niall, is all-consuming. Niall’s barely keeping up with it -- veins fluttering, head spinning and spinning and spinning.

It stops as abruptly as it started, Bressie pulling away and stepping back, putting distance between them. Niall catches himself at the last moment, keeps himself from stumbling. He scowls up at Bressie, but the frustration evaporates almost instantly when he sees how lost Bressie looks.

Heart pounding, Niall waits.

“What do you want from me?” Bressie asks desperately.

“I don’t know,” Niall lies.

He wants Bressie. He wants Bressie to want him back. He wants Bressie to want him more than he wants Jaime.

“All right,” Bressie sighs, looking down and away.

And this is where Niall should leave it. It’s the perfect breaking point. Everything is out in the open, that’s all either of them can do -- all either of them _should_ do -- but Niall’s whole body is still buzzing from the way Bressie touched him, and he knows there's no way he can go another eight months without that.

Niall reaches out and catches Bressie’s wrist before he decides to move away, fingers closing right over the bracelet.

It takes a long time to muster up the courage to actually look at Bressie, but Bressie doesn’t budge. All he does is wait, arm outstretched for Niall.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” Niall says when he finally meets Bressie’s eyes. He’s still flushed pink from kissing, mouth bruised strawberry-red. Niall aches all over.

It’s probably not fair to ask that of Bressie, knowing Bressie won’t lie to him. Bressie doesn’t make it habit to lie, not like Niall’s been doing.

All Bressie does is stare at him, helpless look on his face.

“Tell me to leave,” Niall says.

He will. He doesn’t want to, but if Bressie asked him to, he would. He’d walk away, he wouldn’t push it. He’d get the hell over it. He’d move on.

“Say it again,” Bressie says instead, almost a whisper.

A victorious thrill works its way down Niall’s spine, even as his gut knots up. “I’m in love with you.” Present tense. “Have been for a long time. I-I'm sorry I didn’t realize it.”

“What do you want from me?” Bressie asks again, staring Niall down.

He wants whatever Bressie will give him. “I want you.” He wants everything. “If I can’t have that, I -- I want my goodbye.”

 

 

Bressie carries Niall to bed, hands gripping his thighs, leaving messy kisses on Niall's mouth. He dumps Niall on the mattress, pulling back enough to strip out of his shirt. They watch each other undress hurriedly. Niall toes off his sneakers, throws his shirt god knows where. He lifts his hips and shimmies out of his jeans -- Bressie catches his leg when they get stuck at the ankle and pulls them off, letting them fall to the ground. His own jeans follow, both of them in their pants quick as anything.

Niall wants to look, wants to catalogue any change, but Bressie’s leaning over to catch his mouth, kissing him deeply. It’s rough like it was out in the sitting room, like they’ll lose the plot if they slow down at all. Niall’s lit up, nerves scraped completely raw. There’s a steady tremble to every muscle in his body from anticipation.

Everything’s so quick, Niall can barely keep up. Bressie’s arm wraps around Niall’s waist, hauling him up the bed. One big hand grabs up both Niall’s wrists and pins them above his head.

There’s a delicious pull in his shoulders, and Niall moans loudly, unable to help himself as Bressie reaches down and Bressie palms Niall’s cock until he's achingly hard, friction from his pants nearly too much. The tip of Bressie’s thumb drags roughly over the head, the wet spot where the fabric is already soaked through with precome, making Niall shudder. Thick fingers slide down Niall’s shaft and balls, behind them, blunt pressure at Niall’s hole.

Niall tilts his hips up eagerly, and Bressie smirks at him, stroking back and forth over the thin skin underneath his balls to the thick furl of his rim. The pants dull the sensation, but it’s the promise of it that does Niall in more than anything, makes him whine and squirm.

It’s too much, and not enough.

“Don’t be a tease,” Niall huffs, but he keeps his hips tilted, lets Bressie touch as much as he wants.

“S’what you like, innit?” Bressie smiles down at Niall, tightens his grip so Niall’s wrists sting and ache. “Like it when I take my time with you, make you beg.”

“Maybe.” Niall’s panting, hot underneath Bressie’s massive body, sweat beading at his temples. Bressie watches him, eyes darting all over, hand twisting again. The movement chafes Niall’s skin, burning, skinny bones in his wrists creaking.

It hurts, sharp all through his hands, and Niall moans louder, arches his back harder, chasing the sensation. Bressie gets his hand under Niall’s lifted hips and tugs his pants down, cock bobbing free with a comical slap against Niall’s low belly. His dick drools onto his happy trail, slick and sticky with precome.

Feeling floods back into Niall’s hands as Bressie lets his wrists go and settles back on his knees. Despite the static in his fingertips, Niall keeps his hands above his head, not knowing where Bressie wants them. He doesn’t move as Bressie pushes Niall’s legs apart, gaze sweeping down Niall’s body. Heat blossoms in Niall’s cheeks; he’s sex stupid, but not enough to miss that.

He looks back at Bressie just as blatantly -- the untrimmed hair, thick over his pecs and down his belly where it disappears under the waistband of his pants; shoulders impossibly wide, thighs thick, hands huge on Niall’s skinny thighs.

Niall’s missed looking like this, missed the way his heart pounds when he thinks about how big Bressie is all over. The bulge of Bressie’s cock straining against the fabric of his pants is obscene, and Niall aches to his very core.

“You should fuck me.” Niall sits up, arms shaking as he puts weight on his wrists, pins and needles barely faded. It’s so dark, Niall can hardly see Bressie’s expression, and his insides squirm uncomfortably, wishing he knew what Bressie was thinking.

“Got any candles?” he jokes when Bressie doesn’t answer, voice thin. “Make it proper romantic.”

There’s a huff of breath and a chuckle, but Bressie doesn’t protest. He gets up and paws around the top drawer of his dresser, coming up with a lighter, a big arse red candle, and a handful of condoms plus lube.

The light from the window makes his silhouette glow, and Niall’s heart pounds sharply in his chest, body thrumming with want. He wants, he wants, he wants -- his whole being is tender from how much he _wants_.

The condoms and lube get tossed on the bed next to Niall. The candle gets lit and placed on the furthest table, reds and oranges throwing shadows all over Bressie. Niall lets out a sigh when Bressie looks at him.

Being able to see Bressie’s eyes is what Niall really needs. Needs to know that Bressie isn’t doing this out of pity, that he doesn’t hate Niall for the ways they still want to touch each other. There’s an open vulnerability on Bressie’s face that Niall empathizes with intimately.

Niall reaches for Bressie as he comes back to the bed, pulling Bressie closer so he can lean up and press their lips together, possessive and passionate and everything Niall can’t say with words.

“Flip over?” Bressie asks, pulling away.

Niall bites his bottom lip. “Want to see you,” he says, trailing his hands over Bressie’s shoulders, down his pecs. It’d be easier if he was on his hands and knees, but he doesn’t want to do this if he can’t see Bressie’s face -- terrified of how impersonal it might be.

Bressie looks at him for a long moment. “Alright,” he says, leaning in to kiss Niall again, licking and biting at his mouth. He manhandles Niall up the bed again, settling between Niall’s legs, spreading them wide with nudges of his hips.

“Christ,” Niall inhales, resisting the urge to press his knees together. It’s vulnerable, is the thing, especially with the Bressie. They haven’t been in the position for months and months and months, and Niall feels exposed in every way imaginable.

“Breathe, yeah?” Bressie says lowly.

A long breath shudders through Niall as he tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling -- chest tight, tight, tight, muscles in his arms and legs trembling. The heat in his cheeks refuses to die down, sharp uncertainty stabs at his gut.

Bressie must be able to sense something’s off. There’s a dry press of lips to the inside of Niall’s knee, beard scraping the sensitive skin followed by nip of teeth that tickles more than anything. Niall’s eyes flutter shut as Bressie trails wet kisses up the inside of Niall’s thigh, hand gripping the outside tightly as he sinks his teeth in for real this time, keeping Niall from jerking away.

The pain is enough to make Niall’s brain shut up, hissing roughly through his teeth. Bressie sucks a love bite into the skin with harsh pulls of his mouth. There’s a fire low in Niall’s belly as he does it again and again, brain neatly spaced out.

Bressie licks at the crease of Niall’s hip wetly before pulling back with a smirk. Niall feels like he’s trembling even harder, but it’s better this way, tense from the sharp feeling of Bressie’s mouth and not anything else.

“Breathe,” Bressie says again, reaching for the lube. Niall does as he’s told -- breathes while Bressie slicks up and slouches low enough to sling Niall’s leg over his shoulder, exposing Niall even more, blunt tip of his finger seeking Niall out.

A whine gets caught in Niall’s throat as Bressie pets over his hole, coaxing Niall’s body to bloom open. Niall relaxes into it once Bressie presses in, body clenching down on his thick finger -- one, for a few sloppy thrusts, then another -- an aching stretch that makes Niall sigh.

It’s probably not fair that Bressie still knows how to walk this line with him, still knows how to make him hurt in all the good ways. Still knows that Niall wants fingertips dug into his hips and the soft inside of his legs, still wants teeth at his throat and over his nipples, still wants Bressie so deep inside him he can’t breathe right.

“Been awhile?” Bressie asks, forearm flexing as he fucks two fingers into Niall, slow and deep, taking his time.

“Maybe,” Niall says, shoulders pushing into the mattress as Bressie strokes over his prostate, like it’ll anchor him. There’s sweat under his arms, in the crease behind his knees -- he’s hot all over, suffocating.

“Can’t find anyone to fuck you properly, petal?” Bressie asks smugly, distracting Niall by pressing a third finger in.

“Something like that,” Niall gasps, hands gripping the sheets, twisting them up. It’s not that he hasn’t had any good shags -- great ones, even -- it’s just that Bressie is Bressie, and shagging Bressie is _shagging_ _Bressie_.

Niall doesn’t bother implying the same for Bressie.

“Can you _please_ \--”

“Patience,” Bressie scolds, smacking high on the outside of Niall’s thigh with his free hand, hard enough to sting like hell. Niall’s mouth goes soft, gasping. Bressie hits him again -- same spot, more force. Then, again.

It’s a distraction, and it’s working.

“Fuck,” Niall hisses, after the fifth or so smack, teeth clenched. His cock drools against his belly, every nerve overexcited, but his muscles are relaxing, unwinding.

“Feel alright?” Bressie teases, big hand massaging the spot he slapped. Niall whimpers and wiggles, not knowing whether to pull away from the sensation or demand more. “ _Niall_.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course.” Niall exhales heavily.

“Been awhile?” Bressie asks again, fingers digging into the hot skin with a bruising grip.

“No one wants to hit a popstar,” Niall says, knowing Bressie understands. Bressie makes a sympathetic noise and kisses the inside of Niall’s knee, a tender contrast to the way he’s been grabbing at Niall.

He pulls his fingers out of Niall with a loud, obscene squelch and reaches for the condom, carefully tearing open a corner with his teeth. Niall watches Bressie roll it on, giant hands on his giant cock, and reminds himself to fucking relax as Bressie’s hands settle on the backs of his thighs to fold him into a better position.

It’s still a bitch when Bressie pushes in so, so slowly. He can feel the way Bressie’s thighs are trembling, keeping himself steady as he sinks into Niall. Niall concentrates on breathing, the way the stretch hurts in all the best ways.

It’s been ages since he’s had Bressie in him, and everything about it reminds Niall why Bressie’s cock was always his favorite. He loves the way he feels split to his core once Bressie’s fully seated, the way he can barely catch his breath with Bressie on top of him.

They ease into it -- Bressie grinding forward, rolling his hips as Niall gets accustomed to being so full. Once he relaxes, Bressie starts to move quicker, grip tightening on Niall’s legs as he presses in deep. Eventually, Niall can barely feel the pain anymore, too focused on the pressure on his prostate, the tight feeling in his gut as Bressie dicks into him over and over.

Niall wraps his legs around Bressie’s waist and pulls him in until Bressie falls over him, mouths meeting in the middle, teeth biting into lips and Bressie’s tongue flicking against Niall’s teasingly.

Niall has no idea what to do with his hands. Can’t rake his nails down Bressie’s back, so he settles for clutching at Bressie’s shoulders, fingertips digging in to steady himself. He gets his hands in Bressie’s hair, tugs until Bressie’s groaning.

Bressie’s hips snap hard, skin slapping together, loud and silly and somehow completely obscene. He tugs Niall’s bottom lip between his teeth, ducks to suck a bruise above Niall’s pulse, biting down so roughly Niall yelps.

Niall digs his heels into Bressie’s arse, urging him to concentrate. He can feel Bressie smile against his lips before he pulls back onto his knees, changing the angle so he slams against Niall’s prostate more often than not.

Niall’s cock is so hard it’s throbbing, bouncing between them with every thrust. He wants Bressie to do something about it, but he knows he’s going to come once Bressie gets a hand on him, so he lets it be, lets Bressie ride him out.

“Fuck, I missed your prick,” Niall whines, dull ache at the bottom of his spine the longer Bressie fucks into him. His hands are stiff from holding on, thighs nearly cramping from how tense they are around Bressie’s hips.

“Missed how lovely you look taking me cock,” Bressie says, watching Niall intensely as his strokes getting slower, more deliberate. “All desperate and needy.” He pulls back enough to trace Niall’s swollen lip with his thumb before grabbing Niall’s jaw firmly, steadying. Niall groans, deep in his throat, tries to relax --

The flat of Bressie’s open palm lands on his cheek, skin flaring hotly, _burning_ from the impact. Bressie adjusts his grip and quickly smacks the other cheek before Niall recovers.

“Yeah,” Niall whimpers helplessly, feels the way his body goes molten, lets Bressie sink in deeper.

“Again?” Bressie asks, still holding on to Niall’s chin, hips nearly stopped now.

“ _Please_.”

“So polite.” Bressie’s voice sounds fond, and Niall’s chest goes warm, so warm -- even as Bressie readjusts, even as he gets another slap to the face -- just as hard, but with a much sharper sting.

Niall’s cock jumps between them on the second one, and he sincerely wonders if he could come like this, with Bressie smacking his face, fucking into him, no one bothering to touch his cock.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Niall groans, arching as Bressie lets go and slams his hips forward. Both cheeks are on fire, distracting Niall from the way Bressie relentlessly fucks into him.

Bressie grabs Niall’s wrists again, both hands this time, and pins them above Niall’s head, body stretched out over Niall. The movement makes his cock brush up against Bressie’s stomach, the tease of friction more than enough to drive Niall mad. He squirms and fights against Bressie’s grip, relishes in the way Bressie keeps him pinned, wrists chaffing as he twists and wriggles.

The stimulation is almost too much. The length of Bressie’s cock splitting him open, the way his cheeks sting, the way his wrists ache, the subtle brush of Bressie’s skin against his cock. Niall doesn’t know what to focus on, so he doesn’t focus at all, lets himself dissolve into sensations, knowing Bressie’ll keep him anchored.

“Want to come?” Bressie asks, and indefinite amount of time later, nearly too low for Niall to hear. He opens his eyes and forces himself to focus on Bressie. They’re both slick with sweat, Niall’s precome smeared on both their bellies.

Every nerve in Niall’s body is completely raw, tender where Bressie’s thrusting into him, muscles already sore despite being in the middle of it all.

“Please,” Niall gasps, finding his voice.

Bressie smirks and reaches between them, hand cool and firm around Niall’s dick. He feels like he can’t possibly come after holding back for so long, feels like he’s going to come immediately.

It’s a slow build, a perfect crescendo -- Bressie fucking into Niall and tugging him off. They’re both trembling against each other, panting. Niall shouts when he comes, back arching hard. Bressie pulls back and grabs Niall’s hips with bruising force, fucking into Niall, chasing his own orgasm.

It’s way too much, tears gathering at the corners of Niall’s eyes as Bressie’s cock nudges his prostate. He’s still hard between them, despite the orgasm, and Bressie watches with hot eyes as Niall wraps a hand around himself and wanks slowly, sobbing from overstimulation.

“That’s it, baby boy,” Bressie coos, hips snapping relentlessly. “Hold on for me. Little longer, baby.”

Niall sinks his teeth into the back of his right wrist, so he doesn’t fucking howl as Bressie keeps on. Tears slide down his temples into his hair, still firmly stroking his cock. He can’t _stand_ it. He wants _more._

“Doin’ so good,” Bressie praises, bending Niall in half, jack-rabbiting into him. Niall screws his eyes shut tightly and rides it out. Another orgasm overwhelms him unexpectedly, making him cry out, body trembling hard.

Bressie groans, long and loud, curling over Niall as he comes. Niall’s so sore, he can feel the flex and pump of Bressie’s dick inside him, hissing as Bressie falls forward and his cock catches on Bressie’s stomach.

“Holy fuck,” Niall says, blinking his eyes open. They’re swollen, sticky with tears and sweat. He’s still shaking, every muscle in his body. “Fucking ‘ell.”

“Yeah,” Bressie agrees quietly, grabbing Niall and rolling them onto their sides, dick still snug inside Niall. Niall buries his face in Bressie’s chest, clings to Bressie’s hips with quivering hands, trying to catch his breath, coming down.

He’s exhausted, emotions crashing in his chest -- overwhelmed by it all, a little angry at himself for all of it, more ecstatic than anything else, comfortable in Bressie’s arms. The moment stretches on and on, both of them clinging to each other. Bressie’s hands span the width of his back, and Niall can feel them trembling.

It feels like there’s so much to talk about, so much they should talk about. Niall wants to know why Bressie didn’t say anything out in the sitting room, wants to ask if Bressie’s in love with him. Wants to know if this means they get a second chance. Wants to know if this is a promise, or a goodbye.

But he’s terrified of all those answers, so he stays silent, relishes the hard pound of Bressie’s heart in his chest -- hard enough to feel and hear. He lets himself drift in the moment, the terrible mess of them, the way his whole body feels relaxed and wrung out.

He barely has the energy to protest when Bressie slips out of him and moves away to grab a flannel; Niall’s pliant as Bressie cleans him off, loose limbed and exhausted.

Bressie presses kisses to the thigh that he slapped, and the inside of his leg where he left bruises so dark they stain Niall’s skin. He presses kisses to the sore curve of Niall’s hip where he held on tight, the raw skin on his neck from biting and beard burn. He kisses along Niall’s jaw, each warm cheek.

He kisses Niall’s top lip, his bottom lip, sighing against his mouth when Niall deepens the kiss.

The room’s lightening from the sun sneaking up when they finally get under the covers. Bressie rolls onto his side with his back to Niall like it’s a reflex, and Niall slots in behind him, arms loose around his middle.

It’s easy like this. In liminal energy of pre-dawn, feeling so settled into his bones, satisfied from a good fuck. Bressie relaxes against him, tangles their fingers together, and for a moment, Niall can pretend the last eight months never even happened.

 

 

The shower’s running when Niall wakes up. There’s no clock in the room, and Niall’s phone is dead somewhere in the sitting room or in the pocket of his discarded jeans, but he can tell it’s late morning by the way the sun is bright and yellow through the curtains.

When he stretches, every muscle in his body protests, sweetly sore all over. His cheeks are sensitive, and he can feel bruises on his neck when he presses fingertips to his pulse. The love bites on his thighs are red and purpling, and Niall’s stomach jumps when he pushes knuckles into them.

He supposes he should get up, maybe try to charge his phone, but Bressie’s bed is comfortable and smells like sex, like _them_. It’s not a crime to want to enjoy that, he doesn’t think.

He’s drifting when the shower stops. It takes a long time for the door to open -- Niall can hear Bressie behind it, puttering about -- towel dropping, tap running, domestic noises that Niall hasn’t heard in oh so long. He missed it, missed it so much his chest aches even as he presses a smile into his pillow.

The door opens and Niall sits up, ready to say good morning, but Bressie’s already out the bedroom door, back to Niall. He’s fully clothed, basketball shorts and a soft t-shirt, standard Bressie layabout kit.

When he comes back, there’s a stack of clothes in his hands, folded neatly. He slows when he sees that Niall’s awake. The blank look on his face unbearable. A lump forms in Niall’s throat, heart dropping clear out of his stomach.

“Did you launder me clothes?” Niall asks, trying to keep his voice light. It’s rough from sleep, that’s as good a cover as any. “Why’re you up that early?

“Might’ve,” Bressie says stiffly, drifting into the room, setting the stack down next to Niall on the bed. “Couldn’t sleep.” Bressie doesn’t spare him a glance before he moves away towards the desk. His phone’s charging and he checks it, notification screen crowded with alerts.

Niall blinks at his back numbly before he gets up and grabs his stack of clothes, heading for the bathroom, ears full of white noise as his head buzzes frantically with anxiety.

There’s a stack of fresh towels in a cubby against the wall, so Niall showers quickly. The hot water does wonders for his tense muscles, but only prolongs this certain sense of dread about what might happen once he has to face Bressie again.

The mirror isn’t even fogged when he hops out and dries himself off efficiently, eyes catching on the red bruises on his throat, and collar, and chest. When he twists, there are red marks in the shape of Bressie’s fingers riding his waist, a welt on his thigh from Bressie slapping him.

All these reminders…

Niall knows he left Bressie without a mark.

Kinda how it goes, Niall thinks, smirking humorlessly at his reflection as he brushes his teeth with his finger. There are two toothbrushes in the holder next to the sink. A fancy arse electric one that Niall knows is Bressie’s, and one of them regular cheap ones that cost a pound at Tesco.

Niall’s stomach sours and he rinses his mouth before he’s tempted to dry heave. The towel gets left over the rack to dry, and Niall pulls on his clothes slowly, dreading that he has to walk out the door.

He does it, though. Takes a deep breath and goes back into the bedroom, trying to seem relaxed. Bressie isn’t in the room at all. The bed’s made up with entirely new linens, all straightened out, pillows arranged properly.

Like Niall wasn’t even there.

A tight, hot feeling settles behind his eyes, and he knows he won’t cry, but it won’t take much to make him, especially not like this -- knowing what Bressie’s going to say, before he even says it.

“Where’d you stash me phone, head?” Niall asks, voice deceitfully steady, wandering down the hall, out to the sitting room. Bressie’s in the kitchen leaning against the counter, staring very deeply into his mug of coffee. There are dark smudges under his eyes from not sleeping, but other than that he remains unblemished.

“S’plugged in,” Bressie says, jerking his head towards the edge of the counter.

Niall retrieves it, charged to a measly 58%, but Niall’s not picky. He’ll be home soon, he’s sure.

“Thanks,” Niall mumbles, scrolling through some of his notifications. Instagram, Twitter, a couple new emails -- Harry, Hailee, Liam. A message from Eoghan a little after 2am telling him to behave himself. Niall drops his phone quickly, drums his fingers on the counter.

White catches his eye, and he registers that his Converse are on the other side of Bressie, already sat by the door. Just like that his chest collapses and his eyes start to well up, so quickly his vision blurs.

Niall reaches for his phone and spins so his back is to Bressie, resting against the counter as he unlocks it and opens Twitter, scrolling blindly as he tries not to cry. A tear slips down his face, but he doesn’t wipe it off, worried Bressie might see.

_Here are your clothes, here are your sneakers, here is your phone. There is the door._

Niall’s whole body aches to his core with what happened last night, and Bressie wants him to walk.

Fair, he supposes, considering everything. Considering all the time Niall spent pushing Bressie away, every ‘no’ he’s ever given. Considering the way he essentially stepped out of Bressie’s life once they stopped doing what they were doing, didn’t bother trying to pick up where they left off before they started shagging.

Selfish, all of it. Every fucking bit of it.

Well.

Niall wipes his eyes and pockets his phone, sincerely glad he drove his own car here. Not having to wait for a driver helps, all he has to do is get out that door, and then… He’ll get the hell over it.

His keys are in the drawer right in front of Bressie -- the drawer where all the keys go when everyone’s drinking so there’s no misplaced keys, or idiots trying to get behind the wheel. Solid plan, not so great when Niall needs to leave.

It takes a full 30 seconds to weigh the pros and cons of being the one to get in the drawer himself. Eventually he just turns around and clears his throat. “Will y’ toss me my keys?” he asks. His voice is thick, betraying how upset he is, but he doesn’t look at Bressie -- he looks at Bressie’s hands around the mug, the drawer right in front of him.

Bressie doesn’t say anything as he tugs the drawer open and reaches inside. Doesn’t say anything as he slides them across the counter. Niall pockets them and takes the long way around the kitchen island so he can grab his sneakers.

The first thing he’s doing when he gets home is burning these dumb Converse.

“So, you’re leaving?” Bressie says stiffly, before Niall even gets to them. He freezes.

“I assume that’s what y’ want.” Niall angles towards Bressie and makes a sweeping gesture over his clothes and sneakers. Absolutely nothing about this morning that indicates Bressie wants Niall to stay.

“I didn’t say that,” Bressie says, putting his coffee down and turn towards Niall. His face is still painfully guarded, like it was last night before they fought, before Niall told Bressie he loved him. Niall knows he can’t use that again, can’t use it to wound now that Bressie’s knows -- now that Bressie’s taken him to bed for it.

“Didn’t have to,” Niall says, with a shrug, heart bruising the inside of his rib cage from how hard it’s pounding. “S’alright.”

Bressie scoffs, cheeks going red. “It’s not alright.”

“It’s fine, I get it,” Niall says, trying to keep any vulnerability from creeping into his voice. It was much easier last night, when he’d had eight months to get used to the way Bressie hadn’t touched him. Easy to shut down all that want because he spent months practicing.

After last night, he’s an exposed nerve.

“Get what?” Bressie asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Last night…” Niall clears his throat. “Got my goodbye, right?”

Bressie stares at him for a long moment. If Niall didn’t know any better, he’d swear Bressie looked surprised, but Niall isn’t stupid. Last night wasn’t a tender reunion fuck. They shagged like they always did, rough and demanding and satisfying down to his _bones_ , but there wasn’t a definite moment where Bressie looked at him, and wordlessly decided to choose him.

Bressie didn’t say anything about loving him. Bressie let him to wake up alone, barely looked at him this whole morning. It’s probably guilt -- Niall can feel it too, thick and sticky, coating his insides. It’s probably loads worse for Bressie on that side of it, taking Niall to bed in a place that was solely his and Jaime’s, with Jaime’s texts in his inbox when he woke up.

Bressie’s a good man. Niall brings out the worst in him.

“Niall, I have --”

“You don’t have to --” Niall breathes deep, screws his eyes shut for a moment before opening them, trying to reset all his raging emotions. He’s so angry at himself. It’s his own fault his heart’s breaking again. “I don't want you to… say anything.”

“Still aren’t going to talk about this?” Bressie demands, voice going sharp. There’s no reason to escalate the conversation, but Niall reckons Bressie’s bullin’ for a fight. “After everything?”

“What’s there to say?” Niall snaps. “Doesn’t matter that I -- what I said last night. I’m going to leave, and we’re going to pretend last night didn’t happen.”

Except Niall will have bruises for days and days to remind him. Marks he can press into and hate himself for, even as he blisses out over the memory of how he got them.

Bressie stares and stares and stares.

“I have a relationship that I have to _try_ for --” he starts.

“I _know_ ,” Niall interrupts hotly. He doesn’t want to hear it, any of it.

“I don’t think you _do_.” Bressie looks angry now, cheeks red. Niall bites the inside of his lip to keep from shouting at him. He’s so damn mad -- at Bressie, at himself -- them both for letting it happen, getting themselves into this situation in the first place.

“I spent a year and a half pickin’ you,” Bressie continues, voice raised. His hands curl into fists on the countertop, shoulders hunched, defeat and discomfort written in every line of his body. “Longer, considering last night.”

“You could pick me again,” Niall says meanly, knowing it’ll get under Bressie’s skin. “But you won’t. Wasn’t even an option, was it?”

Bressie stares at him in disbelief. “Picked you over and over for so long, Niall.” When Niall stays silent, he goes on, “I can’t live me life with you at the center of me universe. I moved on, and then you come in here and tell me you feckin’ love me -- that you want _me_. And I can’t help meself, can I? You’ve always done me head in like no other.”

“Well, like I said before, sorry to waste your time.” Niall wipes his eyes on the back of his wrist, smearing unshed tears there so his eyes aren’t swimming anymore. His chest is empty and aching. It hurts so badly, he feels ill. Niall didn’t think it would hurt this badly. “Thanks for givin’ me a good go for the road.”

Bressie stays silent as Niall grabs his Chucks and leans against the wall so he can put them on. There’s a hard shake to his hands, but he manages to do them tight before he straightens. The storm’s calming, leaving him hollow and exhausted, and _sad_ above all else.

Niall’s long accepted that on any given day he’s an emotional masochist, so he looks at Bressie properly and asks, “Were you even in love with me? At all?”

There’s a moment of heavy silence, and Niall watches Bressie’s jaw clench tightly, muscles in his cheek jumping. It makes the dimples by his mouth deepen, like they would if he were smiling. When he meets Niall’s eyes, his are dark and intense, and the butterflies in Niall’s stomach get unbearable.

“I am,” Bressie says. Present tense. “God knows I hate meself for it, but I’m in love with you, Niall.”

 _Hate_.

“All right,” Niall says, tugging his keys out of his pocket.

He could say so much more. He could stick around and argue it out, try to wear Bressie down. He could push and prod, and get Bressie to open up -- get him to let Niall see all the vulnerability again -- but Niall doesn’t want any more resentment between them. He’s so damn tired. Every muscle is sore, his eyelids are tender, his heart is… shattered. He needs to regroup, lick his wounds, figure out how to move the fuck on.

This story ends the same as it always does, Niall leaves.

And Bressie lets him.

 

 

**Christmas, 2017, Mullingar**

“What are you doin’?” Bressie asked, stirring. Niall grinned, continued pressing soft kisses down Bressie’s spine, hands trailing his sides. There were scratches all along the top of his back. Angry, red welts like wings from between his shoulder blades, curving around his ribs. Niall pressed his lips to the nearest marks, pleased with his handy work.

Bressie lifted up his head from where it was pillowed on his arms and tried to look back, but Niall was sat on his hips, making it hard for him to twist around.

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall said quietly, smoothing his hands over Bressie’s back as he wiggled down further, half hard cock pressing up against Bressie’s curvy arse. “Just relax. Enjoy yourself.”

Bressie snorted, but obeyed, lying his head down again. “I always enjoy meself,” he said, smile in his voice.

“Exactly,” Niall grinned, rutting against Bressie cheekily before he moved lower, hands kneading Bressie’s thick thighs. He reached up to grab one of the pillows from next to Bressie’s head, pressing a kiss to Bressie’s cheek as he passed -- then his shoulder, then the dimples at the base of his spine.

“Lift,” Niall ordered, tapping at Bressie’s hip. When Bressie lifted, Niall shoved the pillow under him.

“Oi,” Bressie protested, halfheartedly, wiggling his hips and getting comfortable.

“Shh,” Niall reminded him, biting the curve of his left ass cheek before spreading him with his thumbs.

Bressie always got noisy when he was getting licked out. Everything else was grunting and groaning, but he _whined_ and _whimpered_ when Niall’s mouth was on him, tongue in him.

Niall loved it. Loved the way Bressie would push back against Niall’s face, hissing when Niall’s stubble scraped up his sensitive skin. Love the way his jaw burned and his chin got slick with spit. Loved the way all Bressie’s muscles would relax, going pliant for Niall, making it easier for him to open Bressie up with lube-slick fingers.

The plastic taste of the lube was worth the way Bressie nearly cried when Niall pushed against Bressie’s prostate while licking around his fingers. The way his thighs would shake, all the muscles in his back and arms flexing sharply as he fisted the sheets and tried not to squirm.

Niall took his time -- two fingers, then three -- drawing it out until Bressie was a mess. Until Bressie begged Niall to fuck him, sheen of sweat on his skin, every muscles trembling, arching his low back like a demand.

“Flip over,” Niall said, pulling back, wiping his mouth on his wrist. Bressie complied, flopping onto his back slowly, maneuvering his legs around Niall. He still looked half-asleep, hooded eyelids and pillow creases. His cock was thick and heavy against his stomach, tip smearing precome all over his skin. “Fuck, you’re fit.”

“Are you fuckin’ me or staring, chief?” Bressie asked, with a huff. A few dimples appeared around his mouth when he couldn’t quite suppress his grin.

“Lookin’ at you's great craic,” Niall replied, laughing, getting between Bressie’s legs. He shoved the pillow under Bressie’s hips again before reaching down to pet over his hole. He groaned and flung his arm over his eyes, teeth biting into his plush bottom lip. Niall sunk two fingers in, watched Bressie’s jaw go slack as Niall fucked three in and out of him.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Bressie urged, peeking out at Niall from under his forearm.

Niall grinned and shuffled forward on his knees, one hand small and pale against Bressie’s thigh, the other guiding his cock until the head snubbed Bressie’s rim. They both groaned as he pushed in, Bressie’s legs circling Niall’s waist and pulling him in completely until they were flush.

They fucked like that, hips rolling a little sleepy and slow, catching each other’s eyes. Niall licked his hand and wanked Bressie off in time with his thrusts. They came together, nearly at the same time, mess all up Bressie’s stomach and inside him, slicking the inside of his thighs when Niall pulled out.

He collapsed onto Bressie, who promptly rolled them to their sides, hooking Niall’s leg over his own, slotting them together. Niall’s sensitive cock sat in the sticky mess of Bressie’s hips next to Bressie’s own. They breathed in time, chests rising and falling. Niall couldn’t stop kissing the underside of Bressie’s jaw, his neck.

“Careful,” he warned, when Bressie cupped his arse. The skin was bruised up from this morning -- and last night, and yesterday afternoon -- nearly purple when he checked it in the mirror before they fell asleep.

“Sore?” Bressie asked, digging his fingertips in. Niall hissed happily, squirming.

“Fuck off,” he laughed, biting at Bressie’s scruffy chin. He mouthed at some more, sucking hard before Bressie could push him off.

“Oi!” Bressie yelped, palming Niall’s forehead and pushing him away. There was already a bruise on the skin since Bressie was so damn pale. “Little bollix!”

Niall cackled loudly, arms coming up to protect himself as Bressie rolled on top of him and dug his fingers into Niall’s side. Niall screamed and laughed, trying to wiggle away, or at least wiggle enough so Bressie couldn’t get at any good spots. But it was futile; Bressie was huge, and he straddled Niall, holding him down and tickling him mercilessly.

“I’m gunna wee!” Niall yelped, swatting at Bressie’s hands. Bressie pulled back, face red and flush, smiling like mad. “You’re a menace.”

“ _I’m_ a menace?” Bressie said incredulously, dropping down on all fours to cage Niall in. “You started it.”

“‘You started it’,” Niall mimicked in a baby voice, still giggling. “How old are ye? Act your age, old man.”

“ _When I’m fat and old_ \--” Niall slapped a hand over Bressie’s mouth, but Bressie kept going, louder this time, muffled behind Niall’s palm. “ _And my kids think I’m a joke_ \--”

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” Niall demanded, pinching at Bressie’s sides like that would make him be quiet. The muscles in Niall’s cheeks were sore from how hard he was grinning.

“I quite like that song,” Bressie said thoughtfully, smiling down at Niall all tooth; flushed red and a little sweaty at the temples, gorgeous as hell. “They don’t make music like that anymore.”

Another laugh burst out of Niall like a shotgun. “Christ, you’re impossible.”

“Might be,” Bressie said, eyes going soft. Niall lifted his chin expectantly and Bressie leaned down to kiss him, deep and slow, dropping some of his weight so Niall was pinned properly. Bressie’s thigh slid between his more firmly, giving Niall something to grind against.

He hitched his hips slowly, Bressie’s leg hair chaffing his tender cock. It was good, though, amazing. He felt lit up all over, melting into Bressie at every point of contact -- where they were kissing, where his fingertips pressed into Bressie’s back, where their legs tangled and entwined and --

“Come again,” Bressie said.

“Don’t think I can,” Niall said truthfully, gasping as his sensitive cock head caught Bressie’s skin. He was nearly hard though, prick fat and heavy trapped between them.

“Wasn’t a question.”

Niall groaned loudly and did what he was told, clinging to Bressie and riding Bressie’s thigh until he had a proper stiffy. It was overwhelming, Niall’s whole body buzzed with sensation, still keyed up from fucking Bressie -- from all the sex they’d been having all fucking weekend. It felt like ages before he thought he’d be able to come, even longer before he _actually_ came.

Bressie held him tight as he came down, kissing desperately as Niall vibrated out of his damn skin, trying to catch his breath, regain some sense of balance.

“Alright?” Bressie asked, once Niall stopped gasping. Niall nodded. Bressie pressed kisses over both Niall’s cheekbones, like a reward. “Did good, love.”

“Thanks,” Niall hummed, smile syrupy. Every muscle in his body felt like jello, so he let Bressie rearrange him onto his side and cuddle him from behind, but he did manage to protest, “I’m big spoon.”

“Next time, little jet pack,” Bressie said. Niall could hear him grinning, could feel the way his heart was pounding against Niall’s back. It felt like their hearts were in sync, reverb all through Niall’s torso. His chest was so warm, he was fit to burst.

“What’s your New Year’s resolution?” Niall asked, whispering.

Bressie’s arm tightened around Niall as he shrugged. “Kiss you?”

“I’m in New York,” Niall said, regretfully. They were in different countries that night, Niall already checked. “So you gotta tell me now.”

Bressie was quiet, Niall could practically hear the wheels turning. “What’s yours?” he asked.

And Niall thought about that whole weekend, drunk off expensive champagne and their favorite beers. Never in clothes unless room service came. The first night there were rose petals on the bed. Niall was sure at least one candle was lit at all times.

It was a tiny bit of golden paradise, something unexpected that Bressie gave Niall even though they’d agreed to only get each other socks for Christmas. Niall didn’t mind the surprise. It was the best weekend he’d had since… well, maybe since ever.

Niall wondered if _Bressie_ could be his New Year’s resolution, stomach knotting up unexpectedly at the thought. Well...

“Just wanna be happy,” Niall settled on. That was fair. And as long as Bressie was around, he knew he would be. Win-win. He felt Bressie leave a soft, lingering kiss to the back of Niall’s neck.

“That sounds good,” he said, voice dipping low the way it did when he was about to fall asleep. “Here’s to a happy year.”

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: the infidelity occurs between Niall and Bressie while Bressie has a partner (OMC). under-negotiated kink is in reference to the impact play that happens when they hook up. they had a d/s relationship with they were together before, but it's not explicitly discussed in present time, and they do not verify a safe word beforehand.
> 
> I'm going to put it out there now that there won't be a sequel to this any time soon, if ever at all. it takes a lot to reconstruct a healthy relationship when someone's cheated on their partner with you. being able to do that for Niall and Bressie would take time and a lot of emotional care if I were to do it justice, so we'll leave it at this for now. 
> 
> hit up [nessiefandom](https://nessiefandom.tumblr.com/) for more of the summer fest fics!  
> [post](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/162327093922/written-for-the-summer-fanfest-over-at), [fic tag](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/tagged/infidelity-au), [nessie tumblr](http://bressieniall.tumblr.com/)


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